


Heebie Jeebies

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Can some of you lesbians fix the damn door in every horror movie ever, Conjuring references, Family, Friendship, Gareth Bale whump, Gen, Hala Madrid, Haunted House, Marco Asensio whump, Real Madrid CF, Sleepwalking, Suspense, i love this family so much, jumpscares, protective!Sergio Ramos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Real Madrid in a haunted house





	1. Infestation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CarnivalOfRust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnivalOfRust/gifts).



> Because of a hand injury, I had a weekend off so my dumb ass watched the entire Conjuring series. I've got 'Nun' left, but let's hold that off until it's officially on Yify. (Update: please don't watch that bullcrap)  
> Just wondered what would happen if we put our boys in the same sauce. (Raw sauce)
> 
> So here we go! First chapter of two, maybe three. And if I _do_ make two of them, the following should be twice as long. 
> 
> Dedicating this one to a good friend who's never missed a chance to make me happy with her lovely comments and a jolly spirit, and who keeps spoiling us with her fantastic work and never fails to put a smile on all her followers' faces. My friend, you are an inspiration, both as a writer and as a person. Your gift was meant to be thoroughly planned, but when you beat me to it with a wonderful gift of your own, holding things off wasn't an option any longer. Worth it staying up until wee hours. And now that I've thoroughly spooked myself, I can't go to sleep. :3  
> Anyway - this is for you! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed [Of Lectures and Lesions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501802/chapters/38650043) <3  
> Also guys if you didn't see it, be sure to check it out, it's super funny and amazingly well written!

  
  


„Whad'ya make of this?" Keylor asked, adjusting the strap of his full backpack as he unconsciously pulled his suitcase closer and looked up at the building ominously looming over their heads.

Sergio turned and grazed the two-story house for a second before turning back to the bus where the others were grabbing their stuff from the bunker. ˮDon't care. As long as they fix the hotel situation in time as they promised."

Indeed, the goalkeeper mused. A strange, coinciding occurrence but one that was best sat out through. Allegedly, the hotel they were meant to reside in was penetrated into by one of those mad bombers only hours before they landed. The guy kept yelling in a random language and run all over the building, but they arrested him before he could do any serious damage. And while he didn't blow anything up, or had any explosive devices in his possession, the cops wanted to make sure the coast was clear before allowing people of their importance to settle at peace.

They wouldn't take any risks, not in times like these, so they swerved them over to a hostel for two nights until they ensure it's safe to proceed how they intended. When the booking wasn't made official, the team found it a bit strange, and now Keylor could see why. This ''hostel'' looked like it didn't own any sort of technology, let alone being sorted into an agency. It looked like it hadn't been used since 1950-s.

„Damn. My grandma would find this old", Marcelo noticed when he and Luka joined them.

„I'd rather spend the night in a mold-infested shack than get blown up in the middle of the night", Sergio concluded with an additional firm nod.

„You think it's true?" Luka mused. He bit into the sleeve of his jacket that was wrapped around his neck. ˮThe bomb guy and all?" He carefully walked around the word 'terrorist', even as it hung among all of them in a subcontext, but it seemed a bit too direct and overdramatized thing to use, especially in circumstances like theirs, who traveled from one place to another more often than not.

„I wouldn't insist to find out", Keylor decided.

Isco seemed more enthused with the entire view than the rest of them. ˮWooh! Did Ghostbusters take care of this place already?"

Asensio arched a brow. ˮDid the priest?"

„Shut the hell up, you two, you're watching too many movies", Sergio snapped, not half as irritated as he might've sounded. The wind perked up and carried the leaves along the dusty driveway of a correctly-deduced old two-story house. It expanded in length long enough to seem to be able to host the lot of them.

„Aren't you the funniest at parties. Maybe it's you who doesn't know when to properly relax, old man", Isco concluded, then slapped Marco's butt in the signature way of his no team member was ever spared. ˮRace ya!"

„Who you calling old—" but the two were already sprinting towards the wooden porch, leaving their belongings behind to the mercy of the staff members' sclerosis-driven backs.

„ _Cihcos, las maletas!_ " Casemiro yelled, exasperated, left in a cloud of dust along with his teammates.

„Leave them be", Marcelo said, gathering his stuff and moving along. ˮIf the house turns out to be haunted after all, we'll politely steer the ghosts towards their asses."

„And provide necessary assistance, if need be", Gaz concluded with a grin.

As old as it looked from outside, it wasn't any different on the inside. Heavily ornated tapestries, old carpets, dusty furniture and walls with peeling paint were only basic attributes for the team to see this as a very, very temporary solution.

„Was this even prepared for our arrival?" said Carvajal, scrunching up his nose after dragging a finger across the glass barrier of the old clock where it left a visible trail in the dust.

„I don't think it could be", Marcelo rubbed his chin, observing the L-shaped staircase. ˮWe were re-scheduled only when we landed, and the organizers had to think fast. I think this was the nearest, safest, _and_ cheapest solution they could find."

„That's just insulting."

„Yeah but technically what can we do but complain", the Brazilian said, lips pressed together. He stared absently as Gareth lifted the back of Luka's suitcase halfway up the stairs and Luka slapped his head with a brisk command to let it go and who did he think he was, but his mind had been elsewhere.

  
  


„Jesus, it's like I'm on high school trip again."

It was Sergio's first comment after he went upstairs last one — as he always did, ensuring everybody was where they had to be — and peeked into the first room that revealed Vini jumping up and down on one of the beds and Álvaro singing off tune while unpacking. In the other room, Casemiro was screaming dibs for the bunk bed, thus drowning out Rapha, Karim and Marcelo's groans. Ramos didn't even bother to check the other ones, but he did pause before the final open door when Nacho leaned out to call him.

„Congrats, capi. You get your own crib", he jutted his chin towards the opposite door.

And really. It had a lone king-sized bed with all aspects of additional comfort, from a total of four pillows to the canopy structure with another eyesore of kinky faded-out sheets. Heck, it even had its own small chandelier, ornated with bijouterie that had long ago lost its glow. The half-drawn curtains let through a ray of sunshine which was sketching out the dancing dots of dust.

Sergio stifled an unexpected gulp but frowned and turned around when he heard the snickering.

„What are you two laughing about?"

„Oh, nothing", said Carvajal with a wave of his hand, the one that was draped over one of Nacho's shoulders. ˮJust maybe next time don't be last and you won't slip between the cracks."

„Oh, you want the armband?" the captain lowered his bag and pretended to start unzipping it. ˮYou wanna be the captain, boy? You want responsibilities? Why didn't you just say so, Dani, my man. I never would've thought—"

By now Nacho was already giggling and Dani turned 180, looking around as if he was presented with a six-star luxury apartment, hands crossed behind his back, whistling distractedly. For good measure, and using his current position, Sergio reached over Nacho to slap Dani on his stupid shaved head.

„Get real. We're up for training early tomorrow. And it's right to bed after dinner. I'm dead."

„Hate to admit this, but so am I", Nacho nodded heavily. He knew fully well he wasn't as prone to having a good pastime as he was in his teenage years. Now as a professional footballer, he didn't have the liberty, either.

„Well, one step at a time. Unpacking first. Oh, and don't forget to check under your bed, capi! Here, there be monsters" Dani wiggled his fingers.

Sergio pointed somewhere unspecifically in his room, eyes firmly set on the right back. ˮI'm gonna throw that candelabrum over there in your head if you don't shut up."

  
  


Nothing special happened by nightfall, and after dinner in a roomy, but equally vintage dining hall (where Marcelo imitated an ominous count at the head of the table until Thibaut had to pick him up and place him somewhere else), the team steered to their rooms where Casemiro gloated on top of his nest of glory and underneath him Marcelo rubbed his chin, trying to figure out how to loosen the screws keeping the bunk bed together without being suspicious. Gareth was already putting the earplugs to their rightful place, preparing for early bedtime since he hadn't slept a wink on the plane, and Luka heartfully let him, dimming all the lights and getting out on a small balcony to facecam Vanja for a few minutes.

By eleven, everybody was ready, but Vini, Álvaro, Lucas, Regulión and Mariano babbled and played games on phones nearly until midnight, not caring to be even remotely quiet the least bit and laughing their heads off. In his own room, Sergio swore he would give them until 11:58 to quiet down or they'll see who Sergio Ramos García is. Unbeknownst to him, Kroos wasn't planning on being the least bit tolerant. He allowed all his German sternness to surface when he barged into the room, grabbed Lucas by the collar of his t-shirt and threatened to chase Mariano and Regulión to their own if they didn't move their butts themselves. Caught completely frozen under the stern blue gaze, the Spaniards didn't have to be told twice before hightailing it out of Vinicius and Odriozola's crib. The remaining duo suffered the same glare and hit the switch pronto and Lucas was left stuttering excuses, but which were completely ignored while he was being dragged back to their room. After that door slammed shut, silence befell the old mysterious house at last.

Silence and peace often weren't meant to be put in the same jars.

Marco was turning and fidgeting in his bed more than he would've liked to admit, or more than he was aware for that matter, and Isco's persistent snoring had nothing to do with it. His brain was stuck somewhere between sleep and annoyance, but his body had suspicions of its own. So there was one restless turn after the other until his forehead finally wrinkled when Isco's snores were abruptly replaced by steady sounds of the ticking clock.

He opened his eyes.

As unpleasantly not-comfortable as the mattress underneath him was, the hard surface he was laying on now made it seem completely acceptable. Marco sat up and looked around.

'Must've fallen on the floor', was his instantaneous thought, but then the said floor had to be in the immediate vicinity of his bed.

Except he wasn't even near his bed. He wasn't even upstairs.

He was in the lobby near the wall and the ticking came from the giant grandfather's clock next to the front door.

_How the hell..._

Feeling unpleasantness intensify its grip on his shoulders, he swallowed and carefully covered all 180 degrees he had on display, from the open frame of the living room, over the stairs and the small corridor on its left side that was getting swallowed by darkness, and to the right's silent dining room. No sound other than clock interrupted the silence and no shadow unexplainably moved.

Asensio retreated until his back hit the wall and leaned his head against it. Did he hit the restroom, but by some law of mid-night fatigue somehow failed to remember he got up and went to it?

But the bathrooms are all upstairs.

While he was rationalizing, his eyes kept scanning the rooms and the dark hallway ahead. The hairs on his arms were all standing up in wary caution, like separated from the rest of his body, pronouncing something he couldn't even start to comprehend. He strained, and each breath he took was shallower and too short for his racing heart. Suddenly it seemed that the range of audible decibels expanded on both sides of the scale and Marco heard the blood flow in his ears, the clock ticking turn into booms and the sound of the endless darkness move. Whatever's in there, it's coming. It's coming and it'll be on him any second—

_Paranoid. You are being paranoid right now, man. Chill, step the hell off. There is nothing there._

And just like that, a little common sense was enough to let everything turn back to normal; the ticking, the prickly feeling, and the corridor was just an empty corridor. There was nothing there. There was just him, Asensio, and the clock.

An abrupt noise made him look sharply to the left where a seething sound was carried through the living room doorway. From where he was sitting, and the angle he was given, he could locate it without difficulty. It came from an old fireplace, its entrance barred by a rusty iron screen, deeming it lastly used long time ago. Its ornamental structure was too dense to be seen through into the firebox, but the midfielder was positive that's where the sound had come from.

If he wasn't mistaken it sounded like leftover dust or ashes drizzling down on the firebox floor.

Marco gulped again.

  
  


Despite being a heavy sleeper, something pulled Isco out of sleep. He resurfaced back to reality akin to breaking the surface of the water and was left blinking and inhaling sharply in a sudden need for a voluntary-functioned breath. While he waited for the black dots to snail out of his vision, his ears still echoed with a half-registered aggressive noise. For a moment, he considered falling back asleep, dismissing it off as remains of whatever dream was knitting its random scarf up in his head. The moment he closed his eyes, the noise repeated and jerked him wholly awake. Five loud blows. Then silence.

Isco propped himself up on one elbow, brow frowning in disoriented confusion. The room was wrapped in dim colors of the night, thick curtains hanging limply on both sides of the window allowing petty amounts of moonlight to spare it total darkness. It also allowed Isco to see the covers of the other bed shown away, sporting an empty bedsheet.

The midfielder squinted. Then jumped when the pounding repeated again, in the same explosive volume, and filled the room from one end to another. Three times. The door.

Isco sighed before throwing the covers off. What is he doing now? It's not locked.

He rubbed his face and sniffed while walking to the door. However, when he grabbed a hold of the doorknob, something made him hesitate and open it carefully.

There was no one on the other side.

Isco leaned out to look right and left, but was met with a completely empty hallway. And silence. There wasn't even that buzzing sound of electricity zapping through the wires in the walls that could usually be heard over night. This complete silence that didn't even exist inside a grave made him so uncomfortable that he felt a shiver slip out of his control and shake his tired body.

A squeak of the floorboards made him look right, muscles tense, but they relaxed as soon as he recognized Marco walking over, dragging his feet and rubbing one eye tiredly. Isco would mock the adorableness normally, but now he only frowned.

„Why you pounding on the door?"

„I'm not", Marco whined, brushing past him and into the room. Isco snorted and shook his head.

„You're nuts", he said and followed him inside.

  
  


Two hours later, when both midfielders would fall asleep and proceed to stay in the said condition for the rest of the night, Sergio woke up to a soft and continuous thumping. He scrunched up his nose and opened his eyes to the board less than two meters above. Of course. Royal treatment for a royal captain, Nacho would say. He should barge into his room with a ghostface mask right now to teach him a lesson. Him and Dani, both of them.

But when the thumping continued, he quickly sat up. The door, which was right ahead, was wide open.

Weird, he distinctly remembered closing it before going to sleep.

Sergio squinted, heart picking up pace, then looked to his left to the source of thumping.

At first he nearly gasped in terror at the figure standing several meters away, but then the common sense kicked in before he could properly scream. When it did, Ramos regretted he couldn't slap himself unexpectedly enough to demonstrate how stupidly childish he was being.

It was Álvaro standing up straight in front of the window — and repeatedly hitting his head against it in a steady, motoric rhythm. The sound would be louder were it not for the thin silky curtains, which was why it sounded so muffled.

Sergio jumped out of bed without thinking, running to Odriozola's side.

„Hey, hey. Calm down, knock it off, what are you—"

The pause he made was almost filled with embarrassment when he realized that Álvaro's eyes were closed and he didn't even hear what he said. The younger persistently kept headbutting the window, with mouth hanging agape a little.

Is he... is he sleep—

„Hey", Sergio spoke again when the situation dawned on him, much softer this time. ˮHey. Hey, it's okay, come on." He gently cupped his forehead with one hand in an easy grip to steady the automatic motion and settled the other one on the kid's back. He could feel Álvaro insistently pushing against his palm, but Sergio didn't let him and secured him in place, therefore breaking the cycle. ˮIt's okay. Shh, shh. There we go. Easy, easy does it. There."

Álvaro calmed down after another push but remained standing straight with eyes still closed and Sergio minded not to make any sudden movements while he steered him with both hands on their respective places to turn around and start walking.

„I say, it's still a good thing you came this way and not the other. I imagine you wouldn't have as good time on the stairs", the captain chuckled quietly with a palm still safely positioned in the middle of the younger's back as they walked along together out of Ramos' room.

„Come. I'm taking you back to your bed. And then we're gonna need to have a little chat in the morning, you and I."

He didn't get a response, neither did he expect to. Odriozola wasn't a kid, Sergio knew. Not really. But all issues had to be addressed when it came to the team members, and the one with the majority of responsibility, just like he had reminded Dani, is him. Just as same as, should anything happen to a team member, it will rest on him as a captain. Therefore, it was only the best to ensure everyone's safety before things could even happen, lest this repeated, and the young left-back wasn't as lucky as he was tonight.

  
  


Several rooms down, Gareth woke up, and it wasn't a sound that made him sit up since the first thing he did was to remove the yellow earplugs to search for its oddities. He found nothing but Luka's ominous snores, and when he looked, he had his confirmation; the midfielder was sleeping tightly on his back and no steam train could ever wake him.

Gareth found little solace in the notion. He looked around to every shadowy corner, spaces above the wardrobe, the curtains to the small balcony, even bent down and checked under the bed, but found nothing. He had no idea what he was looking for, but for the rest of the night, Bale kept sitting up, looking everywhere and jumping at the smallest sounds of house cracking, regardless of the continuity of Luka's snores.

It wasn't any sound that woke him up, but the tips of his nerves were trembling and vibrated with palpable wariness. Every hair on his body was standing straight up like electrified. Even as there was no physical evidence to prove to Gareth that there was no real reason why he should be feeling this way, his heart violently thundering in his ribcage bound him with a feeling he hadn't truly felt since he was a small child.

Gareth Bale was deathly afraid, and he didn't know why or because of what. And the same nerve-wracking paranoia kept him up until dawn sucked up the darkness from the corners and he caught an hour or so of needed rest.


	2. Oppression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took fifty years to write for some reason. 
> 
> It's a bummer that Real doesn't want Kovačić back, but technically, our midfield is impeccable as it is. Plus, he did say he wanted to stay in London, so all the good luck to our Mateo! 
> 
> Also is that Kroos and Vázquez getting their own screentime? *rubs eyes* Blimey!

When Álvaro came down next morning, it was seven a.m., and he left Vinicius to sleep a little longer because he knew waking him up on his own accord would be possible only if he strapped ropes over his mattress and pulled him downstairs along with it, and then started banging pots together.

He walked into the dining room to find most of them already having breakfast. He accepted the fistbump from Llorente and sat, feeling an urgent need for coffee and a decent massage. His neck was killing him. He'd have to ask Dani to fix him after training.

„So when do we move? Just don't tell me we're gonna train in the backyard", grumbled Casemiro, pouring more coffee, a half-finished butter sandwich sitting on his plate.

„Oh, yes. Fuck grass, right? Don't matter to us if it's up to our knees, pushing that ball forward is the only thing that matters."

The Brazilian glared at their chief goalkeeper down the table. Keylor shrugged and the look in his eyes wrapped his entire person into something apologetical. ˮ'Course not, man. Don't worry. We're leaving in half an hour. The bus is going to pick us up."

Sergio, who was standing up and motioned for Luka to pass him a pitcher of juice, kept casting worried glances at the young defender, and purposefully didn't speak at first. Only when he sat back down and cleared his throat did he muster the courage.

„Say um... Álvaro... you sleepwalking?"

Odriozola looked up, both taken aback and thoughtful gleams in his eyes, oblivious to the curious glances of the others. He took a second to process what he was being said before opening his mouth, ˮI haven't sleepwalked since I was eleven, but... how do you know that?"

Ramos lifted the eyebrows knowingly. ˮWell, you might wanna cut that gap short."

The complete surprise in Álvaro's eyes told him all he needed to know.

„Yup", he confirmed. ˮYou came into my room dead cold banging your head against the window."

Álvaro blew up his cheeks. ˮThat's fucked up."

„Well, I agree, though I thought I might be the one to say that before you."

„No, I mean... I never did that kind of thing."

Marcelo frowned same as Sergio did. ˮWhat?"

„Someone here sleepwalking, too?" Marco's voice boomed across the dining room when he and Isco joined them.

Ramos looked ready to groan and cry out at the same time. ˮYou too?!"

Asensio shrugged. ˮAllegidly."

„Bullshit, he went to the toilet, then pounded on the door and hid and when I opened it, he pretended to just come around the corner."

„I did not, I—ˮ Marco stuttered at his roommate, then swallowed back the offended tone in favor of a cooler one. ˮTell me then why I fell asleep in my bed and woke up down here in the middle of the night. On the floor."

„Maybe you didn't."

Raphaël considered it to be way too early to have to listen to another banter from these two idiots, so he spared them all. ˮWell at least you guys are having a blast walking around without even knowing instead of waking up with _this_ shit."

When he pulled the sleeve of his right arm up, it was enough to cast the entire table into another silence. Luka silently swore in Croatian, and Toni in German. The sight of an impressive bruise stretching above the crook of Rapha's elbow had Marcelo whistle.

„Woah", someone said.

„Who knew", Marcelo said, trying to joke to cover up that he was a little freaked out. ˮWhile you babies have been sleepwalking, this guy's been sleepfighting."

„You got enough iron in you, man?" Karim asked, lightly running a finger over it. Varane didn't flinch.

Sergio wasn't going to swallow any of this bullshit. ˮTsk. He probably got it from bumping into a dresser corner yesterday or something. Guys, come on, seriously. Stop exaggerating. There's a perfectly rational explanation behind each of your situations. You two, sleepwalk. It's nothing unusual, we just gotta keep you away from stairs somehow and... Gaz? Gaz, are you there?"

Logically, that was absolutely true, but if the way Gareth had his head among folded arms resting on the table was any indicator, he probably wasn't aware of the situation that has occurred by now. His bun wasn't in its common neat condition either, and there was a first notable hint of the Welsh Tarzan in how dismantled it was, strands of hair flying everywhere out of their usual order.

Luka absently caressed the back of Gareth's head, the other hand busy cupping his chin. ˮSaid he didn't sleep at all", he said over his fingers. "Barely a wink. Didn't say why, though. I assumed it was me snoring, but he said the earplugs worked fine."

Bale groaned, clearly woken up from his mini-slumber, but didn't move and Luka patted him on the bun in sympathy.

Toni snorted. ˮYou're talking. Slept well, but woke up to this guy in the same bed", he threw his thumb to the right.

Lucas bristled like a cat touched in the wrong spot, crumpling a napkin in one hand. ˮI heard noises in the middle of the night and got scared! And you wouldn't wake up anyway no matter how much I shook you, so I just assumed you wouldn't mind."

Kroos covered his eyes. ˮThe beds are literally a meter apart."

„Yeah, but the noise was right at my neck."

„...I should've just left you in the room with Álvaro and Vini."

Lucas pouted, but before the entire breakfast melodrama could continue, Ramos made them all gather up and get ready. He inevitably had to yell again when Llorente jumped on Mariano to piggyback-ride him up the stairs, saying he isn't young enough anymore to be picking up scraps of retarded idiots off the floor because of their own recklessness.

The bus pulled over on the driveway at the exact predicted time and Ramos was going full dictatorship mode on them to quit stalling while Keylor had to calm him down before he got a brain stroke. ˮEver since Iker left, you seemed to have taken over all his toil and stress", he said and Ramos muttered something that sounded like a confirmation before striding to the bus. Before Keylor could follow, something caught his attention and made him look right.

There was a single tree perched in the front driveway and it could be taken for a roundabout seeing as it was situated in the middle of it. Its bark looked worn out and pale like it's been diagnosed with a slow, gradual sickness. Sort of reminding of a skinny old man on the verge of death. Something shuffled and the goalkeeper looked up.

A single raven sat on a branch.

Ugly, in one word. Its disheveled feathers lost their shine a long time ago and a hump on its back expressed to the world just how old it must've been. It seemed to blink down at Keylor with its silver beady eyes — obviously blind as hell.

The Costa Rican couldn't resist the impression it was staring him down either way, very much aware of his presence, but that wasn't what baffled and concerned the goalie the most.

He couldn't remember if he'd seen or heard anywhere that ravens were grey.

„ _Keylor!_ "

He jumped, startled twice when the bird cawed in alarm and took off, fapping its heavy wings. Keylor followed its clumsy flight for a second, then looked over.

Isco was leaning through the door of the bus, grinning widely and keen to imitate Sergio until the end of days. ˮQuit stalling and hurry your ass up! We've got places to be!"

His buffoonery was interrupted when Ramos not-so-gently grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him back in. Isco was laughing his head off, but got silenced in a blink when Gareth's whole backpack collided with his face.

„Alright, is everybody finally fucking here?" Sergio thundered once everybody was seated, ready to sit down himself and let out a sigh of relief.

„Wait", Marcelo paused. ˮWhere is Vinicius?"

  
  


Aside from Sergio getting a million nerve breakdowns at the Brazilian wunderkind nearly being left forgotten in bed, by the time they got back from the most inefficient training Real Madrid has ever had —featuring Bale unable to run in a straight line, let alone at full speed and falling over several times under tremendous fatigue and Marco buzzing around off this Earth the whole time — the team was rewarded with more or less bad news. They put the hotel-invader guy to a safer place (safe for community, on his way to a comfy cell), but discovered it wasn't bombs he favored. The man's intentions turned out to be different, but equally sinister. Turns out he wasn't running around for no reason; he managed to stuff bags of exposed arsenic into various air vents so the entire hotel had to be evacuated. Luckily, no one was seriously affected, but people still stormed straight to the hospital down the block just in case and obligated nurses for the rest of the night.

On the downside, it meant they would have to remain in their current residence for at least two more nights until the specialists got rid of every aspect of the poison in any aggregate state. Lord knew what arsenic did to Napoleon.

„That's mental", was Marcelo's only comment.

„You think guys like him are gifted with a sane thought in their heads?"

Casemiro said so while ascending up the steep stairs of the bus and walking past Luka and Gareth where the Welshman was already snoozing with his head against the window and Modrić talked busily on the phone in his native language.

„Yes, yes, I will. No, I told you we can arrange it before June, it's not a problem. Look, I'll get it done before you can say Palagruža, don't worry. It's Mateo", he mumbled to Marco's risen eyebrows when he recognized the language.

Asensio blew him a couple of kisses before proceeding to the back of the bus.

„Marco sends love. He's gonna miss you, you know. We all will."

„ _Yeah, I'll miss you all, too. But I think I'll miss the Madrid sun the most. Stop laughing, it's not funny. Seriously, nothing but rain and gloomy weather here. It can take a toll on you more than playing games every three days... So, crazy guy terrorizing the hotel, you say?_ "

„Sort of. I must say I admire his creativity. It's not often that someone tries to poison the entire building while people are sleeping."

„ _Detective-story writers should take notes. Though I imagine it's gonna be 'the early bird catches the worm' and then everybody accusing each other of being copycats. Publicity can't work any other way._ ˮ

„Indeed", Luka agreed, seeing the core point of Mateo's words. Then he paused, smiling slightly. ˮI'm glad you got what you wanted, _brate_. I'm really happy for you."

There was a moment of silence on the other side and Luka caught a glimpse of a busy cafe bar in the background. Before long, Kovačić completed it with a quiet voice regardless of the noise.

„ _Yeah. Me too._ "

When Karim asked Luka later why he looked so thoughtful, the Croat had no sufficient answer.

The mood was considerably lifted by the evening when they gathered to have a joint dinner in the dining room. It was a far cry from Ciudad de Real Madrid cafeteria — it was even better. Shit bought at the store and Sergio and Casemiro grabbing the aprons and spatulas. It served well for the Real captain and his wrenched nerves since he found cooking relaxing. Plus he didn't have to go full Gordon Ramsey all around the kitchen since it was just him, Casemiro and music on an old gramophone in the hallway playing old fifties, so he finally had reason to relax. Tonight was way better than the afternoon.

  
  


Night crawled over with the same amount of eerie silence in its bag, but the entire building was already sound asleep.

In the only four-bed room which Casemiro insisted he reigned over, the only notable thing was the sound of calm breathing, though Raphaël's differed significantly in its quickened and brief pace. His body twitched in minor twitches and eyelids fluttered against something only his dream realm knew. A short whine will escape him at some point; at the same time when another, more menacing bruise would form on his right calf, which he will notice in the morning while taking a leak, but remember none of the tempestuous nightmares that plagued his mind the entire night.

All of a sudden, Marcelo jolted and inhaled first a sharp, then a long, irritated breath and turned around on his hip.

„Not _funny_ , Case", he grumbled, his Portuguese sluggish and uncoordinated. ˮStop pulling my hair."

„I'm not", came from above him after a lazy second.

It seemed to be it and that both Brazilians drifted off until Marcelo's face scrunched up all over again, this time in unconstrained disgust and he pulled the covers over his head. ˮAnd stop _farting_. It really stinks."

„I'm not farting, you're farting", came an invalid response from the younger Brazilian, the one he won't remember making the following morning, or this conversation as a whole.

  
  


While Asensio was swimming towards the surface of waking, his first impression was the feeling of being pulled down. Like gravity increased tenfold and it was dragging him through the mattress and the floor, through the ground, towards the center of the Earth. His limbs and lungs were being crushed and no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't inhale. The force kept growing stronger and stronger. He panicked, screamed his mind off without producing nothing but series of choked noises. His skull was being squeezed from all sides like a child squishing the balloon between his fingers.

Then he sat up and drew in the gasp of his life, eyes wide and pulsating a million colors. Marco coughed and leaned forward while his ears buzzed painfully and for several moments he just tried to remember how to breathe until his vision cleared along with his head.

He was good. He was good, he could breathe. He could think. He could move. It was all a dream. It's all good.

He exhaled sharply in relief, ready to lean back down to sleep, but looked up — and froze anew when the buzzing was replaced by familiar, steady ticking.

He was in the lobby by the front door and that damned grandfather clock.

Marco didn't know which burned him more fiercely: annoyance or fear. But whatever it was, it surely had his heart racing faster than he ever went on his feet in his entire life. He looked himself over, shirt drenched in sweat, and then around, still not comprehending the situation.

„Isco?" he called out, jumping at the resonating strength of his voice. The complete silence that answered him only managed to freak him out further. The Spaniard licked his completely dry lips and the following breath he took shook uncontrollably like the lightning rod on the wind.

„Come on, it's not funny anymore. You know I'm not good with jumpscares, so if you're gonna do it, just g-get it over with."

Wretched stillness again, across the entire floor. He was all alone, and he could feel it. Nothing moved, and it felt so wrong that Asensio wanted nothing more than be upstairs safe in his bed, and Isco could snore as loud as he wanted, as long as he was there with him. As long as he wasn't alone.

Marco shook his head firmly. His not-a-bit-grown-up imagination was making shit up. Maybe Sergio was right. They _did_ watch too many movies. As thrilling as the sense of dread was in the theatre, who would want to experience it in real life? Some fortunes in life weren't appreciated enough.

A bit consoled, he went to push himself on his feet. However, the moment he moved and his clothes made a sound, the deadness was killed by another sound.

Music. Faint, and glitchy, its true quality swallowed by time as the needle scratched across the record. Unmistakeable in its clarity of belonging to a gramophone. Undoubtedly, the old gramophone that kept them company while they had dinner.

Marco's blood chilled anew and he looked forward, into the dark hallway to the left of the stairs. Just like the night ago, it was swallowed by hungry, bottom-of-the-ocean-like darkness with no outlines of objects or lights. And from its depth, quiet song dredged somewhere out of the fifties was invoking him in.

„I-Isco?" the midfielder called again, swallowing on impulse when his voice cracked. ˮPollo? Álvaro? C'mon enough with the act, it's really not funny anymore."

For several moments, music was the only response he got, and while it was a distraction, Marco strained to hear the sounds beneath it: any squeak of the traitorous floorboards, a quick whisper, or mocking laughter trying to be restrained. Anything. But there was nothing else. Just the old, worn-out record.

Which, after another verse of Asensio not being able to move an inch abruptly stopped as the frequencies descended and created that eerie howl of music dying out. Then silence drowned the house again.

_What the..._

Marco sniffed, now undoubtedly freaked out. Last time he heard, gramophone records weren't stopping on their own, not even when music was finished. The needle would still be scrabbling until a hand would pick it up. Deliberately. All was dead quiet, with no susurration, no whispers and no breathing, and Marco found the maniacal pounding of his heart against his ribs deafening.

_Something old is here. Older than the house. It came on the back of the wind and erupted through the layers of Earth's crust. It came to rip out the sense from all impossibilities—_

Asensio mentally slapped himself with no idea where that thought sequence invaded him from and was just about to reprimand himself if only to ease the heart-clenching tension a little bit—

_Thump._

Marco flinched, heart skipping a beat. Unintelligible shuffles followed the sound, coming from the depths of the hallway. Then it stilled again.

Marco gulped and shivered, a familiar sensation of every hair on his body standing up like a needle. ˮIsco?"

He didn't recognize his voice: tight, high-pitched and forced out of the cramped tunnels of his throat. He should leave. He should just stand up and walk away, it was probably just house making noises, and the gramophone was a rusty piece of garbage. After all, the building was a million years old, as Dani so mildly put it, and he was probably sleepwalking agai—

_Thump._

Asensio jumped when the hit repeated, hollow and loud enough that it was impossible to dismiss it as a coincidence. He could only give into weak attempts to crawl back, away from the hallway while the sounds kept going, in a steady, monotone moving rhythm. Closer.

Towards him.

And as it was coming closer, Marco found it difficult to breathe when he realized they were coming from above.

Ceiling.

_Ceiling._

_Ceiling._

His back bumped against the wall and the midfielder stuttered, now wholly shaking and sweating missiles, panting like he ran a hundred and twenty minutes of the game. He locked his eyes against the top frame to the lobby where the sound was meant to come out on the weak night light. Trapped in pure fear, it could never occur to him how helpless he really felt.

Then it stopped.

Marco held his breath and swallowed a lump of terror, watching every shadow around the upper corners.

He nearly screamed when something tiny flew in his direction and bounced off him, landing to his right. Horrified out of his mind, he looked at the object, then up at the hallway, then back to his right.

It was a crumpled piece of paper, small enough to cause him difficulty because when he slowly reached out for it and tried to unfold it, it took him a few extra seconds for how violently his hands were shaking.

What Marco was met with was clumsy, scrappy handwriting. Two lettered, in his mother tongue, but perfectly, terrifyingly clear all the same.

**Isco sleeps**

Asensio's heart sank when he looked back to the top of the doorframe. His blood froze in that split second of calmness and he went colder than the planet without the sun. Having no idea if he was breathing or not.

Something violently tugged his ankle and pulled him towards the hallway. A scream that's been bubbling in his throat all the while exploded, and his fight or flight senses finally kicked in. Marco scrambled up on his feet, legs numb with fear, and fled towards the stairs, jumping two at the time and having to use his hands at some point to not fall over on his face. He stumbled, fighting not to cry out in pure terror, and sprinted down the hallway. He didn't dare to look behind, firmly convinced he had something chasing him. The doorknob of his and Isco's room nearly came off under the force Marco pulled the door open. The midfielder dove onto the bed and scrambled so that his back was against the wall, knees pulled up under his chin and eyes flying terrified around every nook and corner of the room.

And, to his ultimate horror, Isco was in his respective place where he had left him, snoring in his own bliss.

Never in his life was he so relieved to hear that infernal noise, though it didn't console him.

He couldn't calm down no matter how hard he tried, and his breaths still came out in short, rapid measures while he rocked back and forth, nibbling frantically on his thumb. He knew he looked like a lunatic, but couldn't care less. Rather, Asensio was frantically digging for some sense and reason while he still had one, and all the while, his mouth was running on autopilot in a wobbly-voice, mingling with Isco sawing wood undisturbed.

„ _El techo... mierda... el techo... Hijo de puta... Estaba... estaba en el techo... Estaba en el..._ "

Asensio would remain in the same position for a long time, questioning his own sanity, but he will only succeed in overthinking and scaring the life out of himself, so exhaustion, as a result, will reduce him to thin sleep not long before he would be jolted back awake and re-convinced the same.

  
  


Soft thumping grabbed Sergio's wrist and pulled him out of a nice dream where he was knocking Dejan Lovren's teeth into his brain. He furrowed his brow and slowly opened his eyes, more displeased than he felt when someone would ask him something dumb after a lost game. What kind of a ritual does a man have to perform to get a full night's sleep?

He looked left to the source of the rhythmic bumps, subconsciously knowing what to expect even before he saw it. He sighed heavily and threw the covers off. ˮAgain?"

Álvaro had his session of hitting his head against the window in steady strokes, and the only shield against the supposed-to-have-already-formed bruises was the nest of a hair covering his forehead. No wonder he was so skeptical about it when he didn't have proper proof.

Sergio cupped his forehead no less carefully than the previous night and tried to steady the automatic movement of his younger co-player. The center-back didn't say a word, only caressed the boy's back and waited for him to stop resisting. Once he calmed down and remained standing, limp and still, Ramos sighed softly again.

„Come on, you masochist", he said, not unaffectionately, and slowly steered him around. ˮYou're sleeping here tonight."

Álvaro's sleepwalking self obediently followed his motions until he was laid on one side of the bed and covered, never opening his eyes or showing signs of waking up. While Sergio was adjusting the covers, he remembered a fact he had read today after training, about how sleepwalkers can be led by their subconscious desires that even they don't know they have. So either Álvaro really likes windows, or deep down his dream job is washing them.

Then why come all the way to Sergio's room?

He observed the youthful face before him pensively. The article also said sleepwalking can surface as a result of an unresolved suppressed problems and/or trauma. Did it have something to do with Ramos then? Was he having issues with the _Furia_ captain?

Before he got to internally monologue about it further, newly risen noises made him jump — and freeze on the spot.

The thumping was back: firmer, and more expressed than before. But with the exact same rhythm as Álvaro's head was producing.

But... Sergio was looking right at him.

So if Odriozola was in his bed... what was hitting the window?

The captain turned around, muscles tense and on the ready, only to be met with — nothing. There was absolutely nothing, and no one else in the room but the two of them. The thumping was gone, too.

But the window Álvaro was hitting was opened just enough for the wing to pop out and stir the curtains. Nothing else was off.

„Fucking draft", he mumbled, walking over with no hesitation (and legs stiff like they were made of wood) and closing it. It made the same expressed thump like the ones going on behind his back.

Only, when he looked outside, he realized there was no wind. In fact, the branches of the tree in the driveway didn't move in the slightest. Ramos wasn't an expert, but he didn't remember seeing nature as still as a painting. That, and the steady silence behind Odriozola's lackadaisical breathing was a tad unnerving.

While he was locking the damn window, ensuring it couldn't open in no other way than by hand, he noticed a lonely bird sitting on the tree branch. He couldn't see exactly which, due to the lack of light, but it was pale in color, and didn't look big enough to be an owl. In fact, an outline only reminded him of a raven. Huh, weird. Weren't they all black?

Hmf. As long as it wasn't making noise and disturbing his sleep, it could be _pink_ for all he cared.

He laid on his back back in bed, staring up for a long time, feeling somehow at ease for having the young defender by his side just so he could rest assured he isn't wandering around, risking his health, or — God forbid — green career.

His musings were on no particular road when screaming started.

  
  


In Toni's words, the Spaniards were someone you had to get used to.

He realized that when he first came to Madrid and was instantly welcomed with open arms. Maybe even a bit too open for his liking; back then his shell was unpenetrable and closed off with its full Germanic might.

The first thing he learned was that the difference between Spaniards and Germans was colossal. Back in Bayern and his national team, Toni recalled sharing affection at the likes of hugs restricted liably to games and significant goals. (Exclusion being the World Cup 2014. That was the real deal... Still the main seasoning for his every meal.)

These southerns were dogpiling after one successful pass in _Rondo_.

He wasn't ready for this kind of social change, and he certainly wasn't comfortable at first. His new teammates either had a limited concept of personal space or didn't have sense for it at all. It was difficult to be comfortable when you were glomped when you least expected every few minutes. The German's body language said it all since his mouth couldn't at the time, but the team got the message and gave him his space. Frankly, he kind of felt ashamed; they were only trying to make him feel at home in his new surroundings. Despite Modrić and Bale's effort to help him row his way across the main problem — the language barrier — a year has passed without change, and Toni started questioning his decision to come here.

Then Vázquez came.

Whatever force of nature gave him that aspect was an enigma to Kroos because never before had he met a person who was more persistent and challenge-accepting than Lucas. This newbie has taken it upon himself to penetrate the German's armor shields no matter the cost, and for a while, Toni has been dodging out of his reach like smoke fleeting an enclosing fist. Still keeping to himself. Still mentally to the east of Europe.

But, little by little, he began to get used to the Spaniard's presence. He allowed the younger player to take small steps closer, still cautious, but more liberal. Lucas' intransigence was making him curious, and when he had allowed that emotion to prevail, it was already too late: he had fallen into the Spaniard's pit trap.

In the end, all Vázquez's effort has paid off. Kroos thawed like a sprout touched by the first rays of morning sun in the early spring. As one week followed the other, Toni found the Spanish heartful interactions to be highly contagious. Not enough to turn him into one of them maniacs, no, but Nacho's blitz-jumps on the back don't even surprise him anymore. In fact, when a day goes by without at least one, he becomes concerned and then asks himself how did he let himself get where he was now.

Still, it was Lucas who turned out to be his guide and help him finally feel accepted while the others were crouching in respective silence all year. Now the two were practically siblings, looking on how to prank the other silly.

After some time, Toni realized just how thankful he should be and _was_ for the gesture.

And what Lucas received in that regard was a mere slap on the face. Toni grew to like him, maybe even love him like a brother, but he had to keep the specs of his German dignity he had left since those damn Spaniards have ripped it all off.

But who was he kidding — now it was too late. He had long stopped caring.

While he did appreciate that, he didn't feel the same about being woken up in the middle of the night. He grew accustomed to the Madridistas' routines, but his mind still worked like a Swiss watch, in and out the routines of sleep as it was seen fit.

He wasn't a light sleeper like Gareth, but the more defined solid ambiental factors still bothered him. Like for instance the fact that the insides of his eyelids suffered an additional tone of color they weren't supposed to; glowing bright, undefined yellow. With that in mind, Toni also noticed a prickly sensation of immediate proximity and lifted his eyelids tiredly. That decision was immediately regretted as a bright beam of light forced his pupils to dilate and he squeezed them back shut, suppressing a groan. He tried again more carefully, fingers sprawled slackly across the eyes, and gave a curious peek.

The light was coming from his right, small, but sharp. It was lightly quivering, held by someone's tightened fist. Toni followed the forming shapes one after the other, drawing in the details; the outline of a phone case, a tanned hand gripping it and, above it, Lucas' face. Regardless of the unpleasant waking, neither his gaze nor the light was pointed at the drowsy German, but over him.

„What are you doing?" he slurred annoyed, English tripping clumsily over his tongue. It was way too late/early to think in Spanish.

Lucas either ignored him or didn't hear him at all. He kept staring forward, and the German realized he didn't see him blink yet. This made him frown and he propped himself up on his elbows, trying to ignore the piercing flashlight. Lucas was kneeling by the side of his bed, leaning on his elbows.

„Lucas."

„ _Algo está ahí_ ", he said, voice shivering much like his hand.

Toni took a second to translate (still, after 5 years), and then followed the distressed winger's line of sight. The light of his phone splattered a shaking pale corona on the opposite wall and a silhouette of a creaked open bathroom door. Shadows jumped around it, dancing along as the flashlight played, squeezing and stretching apart. The only mildly interesting thing Toni could actually see.

He sighed, one thumb and forefinger reaching out to rub at his eyes. ˮ _Scheiße... Lucas..._ " He felt around with the other hand until he felt Vázquez's stiff wrist and patted it twice, hoping it felt more comforting than annoyed. ˮCut the crap, it's not funny. Go back to bed."

„N-no- - Toni-"

The German glanced over again, fully awake now. Other times he would turn on the other side and tell him he'll give him a count to three before throwing Lucas' ass back to his own bed. But hearing the raw panic and nothing else in his voice, and having the look in his chestnut eyes confirm as much made him reconsider.

„Lucas, what is it?"

„There is _something_ there", the younger insisted through tightened throat.

Kroos frowned, looking to where the flashlight light was falling, still failing to notice the source of Lucas' distress. All that was there were shivering shadows made by the Spaniard's trembling hands. Realizing he'll have to leave the safety and warmth of his covers and use his legs to figure out what made Lucas interrupt his well-deserved sleep made his eyes turn. He threw back the covers, sighing, escorted towards the bathroom by Lucas' uncoordinated stutters.

„Toni- Toni, no.."

Initially, he liked to believe his walk was firm and decisive when his first intention was to turn on the light and fire the confetti, yelling ˮ _Meine Damen und Herren, freuen Sie sich!_ Because Lucas has won another gold medal for best drama triggerer!"

But the nearer he went, the pace of his step fell. The way he realized, he was approaching the door as if he would a wild beast, and the notion settled in the middle of his mind just as he was completely near. Lucas' quiet hysterics didn't subside and occasional mumbles in undecipherable Spanish reached Toni's distracted ears when he tried to strain to hear what laid _behind_ the door and figure out why the air felt like it was embracing him in a cloak of needles.

His previous assurance withered when he carefully laid his fingers on the ajar door to push them open; Toni's own shadowy outline shivered against Vázquez's light. One hand ready on the switch, he disposed the empty darkness of the bathroom open and clicked the light on to reveal what laid beneath.

It was like Toni's limbs went from stone to flesh again, not realizing he released a small exhale of relief. He leaned in and looked around, and was met with nothing out of ordinary. Just like he suspected. Obviously, paranoia was no different than a virus when it came to the speed of contagion. Idiot. He turned around, half-expecting Lucas to have a huge grin on his face for making his friend fall for it, again, but the Spaniard's youthful features were still tense with wariness.

Toni spread his arms apart and let them fall against his tights with a loud pat, hoping his legere stance looked more bored than exhausted. ˮSee? Nothing. Now can I please go back to sleep?"

Lucas looked completely lost for a moment, and Toni almost felt sorry for him. He had his way of stopping Toni from strangling him when he deserved to be strangled.

Then it all happened in a clap. In one moment, Toni was watching a completely confounded Spaniard. Then his eyes turned wide in his sockets and he hiccupped a sharp breath, dropping the phone on the bed, smothering the flashlight and therefore only leaving the pair with a weak orange light emerging from the bathroom ceiling. Kroos saw Lucas' entire body starting to shake anew in a way much worse than febrility. And his eyes, glistening with unshed tears of pure terror, pinned somewhere above Toni's head.

The German was about to let the words in his mother tongue breaking through his throat burst out, uncaring that the younger might not understand him, when he felt it. A cold, crawling sensation boring into the back of his neck which made him bristle in instinctive alarm. Before he could do anything more, a thin veil of voices — a cluster, or was it only one, he couldn't decide — wafted around his ears, so faint, yet so perfectly clear, and it made his limbs turn back to stone. It sailed from everywhere and settled in each of his bone.

The impossibility of what he was hearing among Lucas' quiet whines prevented his logical mind from functioning.

Toni didn't turn around. For a while. He couldn't. He just stared at Lucas and silent tears leaking down his face. Until he smothered down the lump of terror he felt himself and swallowed it down thickly. Frozen as they were, his limbs wouldn't cooperate with the demand he do it as quickly as possible, so Toni turned slowly like a starting carousel that hasn't been in motion for centuries. Goosebumps exploded all over his body, ruthless as biting fire. Just as the glowing outline touched the corner of his eye—

_Slam._

The room sank to darkness again as the bathroom door shut with a bang, and Toni jumped backwards, ears ringing and heart hammering in his chest as the resonating leftovers attached themselves to Lucas' arisen throat-ripping screams.

Toni couldn't move. He was still petrified, mind empty, standing like a statue while the others started bursting into the room one after the other. Sergio being first, jolted to the sitting position the instant Lucas first started and bumping into Nacho and Dani as soon as he barged through the door. He stopped in the middle of the room, for a moment just trying to figure out the meaning of Lucas sitting on the floor with his knees protectively pulled upwards and hands gripping his ears. And by that time, Dani, Nacho, Casemiro, and Marcelo hurtled past him. Rapha and Karim might've been there as well, he wasn't sure because too many people in the room started yelling at the same time, trying to outyell the deafening shrieks.

„What the hell did you do?" Ramos' switches finally clicked and he barked at Toni.

„I- I- -" the stiff German desirable thoughts, watching as Asensio appeared out of somewhere and clutched Lucas for dear life, squeezing him in his arms. Toni spotted the same sick shine of hysteria in Marco's eyes.

„It was here! It- it was up there!" Lucas managed, openly crying and holding onto Marco with his life. ˮI saw it. I _saw_ it It— it s— it _spoke_ to me!"

Further sequence of words was lost to utter incomprehensibility, and now Marco joined him as well. Marcelo tried to reason them both, but couldn't reach to either of them. Only noticed the repetitive word ''ceiling'' among their tireless caterwauls.

„For Christ's sake, someone tell me what the _fuck_ is going on here!" Sergio shouted, more out of frustration than demanding an actual answer.

Toni still stared at this horror, a tumble dryer implying a centrifugal rollercoaster in his logical mind, unable to focus what was going on before him. There was nothing exact or real to be pulled out of the last couple of minutes, and the facts mixed with fear shivered along his nerves. All while the verses he was faintly given kept insistently pounding against his skull over and over again.

_„Dein bleiches, qualgebornes Blut,_

 _Du nächtig todeskranker Mond.“_


	3. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this, I definitely didn't plan it to grow this big. Thought it was going to be two mini chapters max, but it seems like I'm going to have to divide this final one into two. I called this one a 'break' because it's sort of 'calm before the storm', where our beloved teammates are enjoying the final moments that make sense. But without spoiling too much, let's just say that in the next (hopefully final) chapter shit hits the fan. 
> 
> I am absolutely devastated to hear we fell out of nearly every competition, compared to over 1000 days of being Kings of Europe, but this is the time where we, the fans, have to be the strongest. Strong for the players and strong to defend them against hating critics, because it's what they need us to do. Quite honestly, it feels relieving to know there won't be no further heart attacks, and that some old dogs like Modrić, who had to be at full strength for years, will have a well-deserved rest. It's time to regroup and have the next season kicked-off better. So Hala Madrid to the end of days!

Miraculously, albeit unexpectedly, Luka was the only one driven enough to do something. Anything other than being helpless. So he did the only thing he knew at the time — called the police.

They came within twenty or so minutes when the sky started to mush a purple/indigo tempera on the east. All the while various teammates were trying to reach to Lucas and Toni, one who gradually stopped wailing, and one who wouldn't make a sound. Asensio was gripping his hair tight in his fists and wouldn't respond to any questions, so being just another person in the long line of failing to get to him, Marcelo just settled with holding him tightly in his arms if only to wordlessly convince him that he wasn't alone.

Vázquez went from hysterical and incoherent mumbling to meaningless numbness captured out of time's reach on the outskirts only he could see. Toni and Lucas' room became the center of all occurrences and it wasn't long before every head was found occupying it. Minus Vinicius and Isco who miraculously managed to have their sleep undisturbed.

Nobody talked. Only Mariano and Llorente conversed in low murmurs that fulfilled the air in an old, comforting familiarity. Casemiro was praying with eyes closed and palms turned upwards, and Sergio paced up and down the room until he heard the sirens.

If the house wasn't alive by then, it erupted completely by now. If you happened to find yourself in the room as the third observer, someone not paying particular attention or languishing like you tried your hardest to pretend you didn't exist — like Lucas — you would barely notice a forest of feet entering and exiting busily. Voices arose, both familiar and alien, and lifted the atmosphere like a curtain. With the sky clearing and filling the nooks with light along with all rest, the house suddenly seemed ordinary again. Like no misplacing events occurred in the past couple of hours.

Varane used the liberty of movement to finally go relieve himself. Not that he wasn't unallowed to before, but he felt a sort of an unspoken duty to remain in the same room with everybody else. Duty or subconscious drive, he wasn't going to bother diving that deep to find out which.

While he stood there peeing and not thinking about anything in particular, as is usually the content of Raphaël Varane's head, he noticed something that made him flinch and involuntary curse when he messed up the toilet seat. At first he thought some bug has attached to his right leg in the low light, but when he turned the light on, it showed him a bruise. A mean, expressed bruise which resembled something sprinkled from a distressed artist's paintbrush. Something he had never seen before.

Rapha couldn't hide the consternation. How did he not notice it before? It looks menacing enough to have caused pain. A lot of it. One careful touch followed by three gentle taps, each stronger than the previous one revealed it to be very much so. It was an enigma to the defender how it took him a visual sense to realize it existed instead of tactile.

Rapha straightened up, realizing how exhausted he felt. He tried not to be too concerned. The seriousness of the situation could be varied, and hopefully not keep him from the starting eleven for the rest of the season.

The ambulance screeched over among the police vehicles and they checked Lucas immediately. He was in obvious shock, and wouldn't respond to any of the paramedic's questions. Whatever he's seen had gotten him good. Varane used the opportunity to consult with the medics who looked less busy, not willing to wait for the club's own. They instantly gave him something for iron.

Inspecting the bottle, Raphaël inexplicably felt sick. He didn't think he felt this bad last night. Come to think of it, he didn't think he felt this bad in years.

Asensio insisted he was fine and pushed away any unknown hand that ventured too close. Quite honestly, he looked more annoyed than frightened now, even as the spark of panic wasn't entirely lost from his eye. Still, he demanded Lucas get all necessary help.

Around the same time, Isco appeared in the hallway rubbing sleep out of his eyes and blinking at all the fuss. The only one he could get to bring him into the situation was Casemiro whose vague amount of information wasn't very helpful.

Kroos sat on the stairs in the front, not caring about cold stone cooling down his body temperature. It was already low enough. He blankly watched Lucas with a blanket slung around his shoulders sitting in the back of the ambulance van. Unlike redoubtable fire the Spaniard had in his eyes all the time, seeing him this hollow was eerily unnatural. Like his soul went on a permanent vacation and left them to deal with an empty shell of Lucas Vázquez's body.

Toni felt a gust of sorrow. Lucas could be annoying as hell during training. He could drive him nuts with his lame jokes and teasings, regardless if the German was in a bad mood or not. But damn him if it wasn't what made him a real friend. Lucas only meant well. Most of the time.

Toni already missed him.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone sat to his left. Gareth's already thin lips pressed into an apologetic line as he was taking a seat next to Toni. He leaned his forearms on his strong knees and watched the officers and paramedics walk around them, rambling in hurried Spanish.

„You okay?" the Welshman asked.

Toni wiped the nonexistent moisture off his nose and sniffed. ˮI don't even know what to think, so I don't know if I'm supposed to be okay."

Bale sighed through his nose and looked around, deciding it would be best to give the midfielder a moment. Farther down, he could see Ceballos just standing and biting his nails, the other arm curled around his abdomen in a defensive manner. He was staring at the tree in the middle of the driveway like it might sprout a head at any moment. The Welsh didn't know for sure, but he didn't think he had ever seen fear in his eyes. Perhaps this wasn't it, but it was undoubtedly close.

Sergio approached him from the side and the younger didn't notice him until he laid a careful hand on his shoulder. It made Dani jump and he seemed to rapidly try to school his features, wiping his hand against his pants.

Gareth verged his gaze at Lucas and the blank stare he was sporting. ˮI both do and don't want to know what made him work himself up like this."

Toni shook his head firmly. ˮIt wasn't him."

Gareth looked at him. Kroos waited, then returned the blue-eyed gaze after a moment; it was agitated. Not so much frightened as disbelieving.

„Look at me and tell me honestly", he told him in his accented English. ˮAm I a reliable person?"

„What?"

„During all these years you've known me, do I strike you as someone to rely on regarding accuracy and... structural analysis of the situation? Am I a realist enough to be relied on?"

Gareth had no idea what he had just said, but he figured he understood the essence.

„I'd definitely come to you for straightforward, honest advice if that's what you think."

„Then tell me if I'm finally starting to lose my mind or is some fucked up shit really going on." Toni rarely swore. But when he did, you knew without a doubt that it was serious. ˮBecause I'll rather have the first option if it's gonna leave me with some sense of security that actual logical answer exists."

„What do you mean?"

„If I wasn't with Lucas at that moment, I'd probably think the same as you and ask myself what I'm talking about."

„What did you see?" Bale blinked.

The German shook his head. ˮNothing." He gulped. ˮI don't think I'd be as senile if I saw whatever he saw if that makes sense."

Now he was convinced Kroos definitely wasn't pulling some sassy prank. He was _really_ nervous; something that was completely out of character. Gareth could piss blood before the game and throw hysterics like frisbees, yet Toni would always look on, cold as ice, completely focused. This fragility of the stoic German scared the hell out of him. Apart from Luka and Sergio, Toni was this team's rock, even as he probably didn't know it.

„But I did _hear_ something", Toni said in a very low voice. He wasn't looking at Gareth, but somewhere on the stone driveway, doubtlessly rolling his brain in search for recalling. ˮIt isn't normal, man. Every time I think I thought it up, I try to remember it, and it comes back to me without a shade of doubt. I didn't make it up. It wasn't in my head, I know it wasn't. But it still doesn't make any sense."

„What makes you say that?" Bale asked, stupidly, even as he knew there was a number of reasons why Kroos' rant sounded so senseless, but the midfielder's next sentence took the cake.

„Gareth", he said, looking him straight in the eyes. ˮIt spoke German."

The striker mouthed a couple of times, but nothing that wanted to come out was an explanation. He was probably thinking the same as Toni. German. In the middle of Spain. Not Spanish or English. German.

„Exactly", Toni read Gareth's dumbstruck gaze.

„Do you remember what it said?"

„Well, I managed to google something quick after they checked Lucas", Toni scrolled through the phone he was still holding. ˮThat's another train wagon of senselessness. Apparently, it's two verses from a poem book called _Pierrot Lunaire_ , originally written in French, but early-20th-century composer Arnold Schönberg translated twenty or so of them in German. That music is fucked, trust me you don't want to hear it. I heard the snippets."

„What?" Gareth's face scrunched up. ˮWhat's that got to do with anything?"

„I don't know. It makes no sense, I told you", Toni shook his head. ˮThe verses I heard translate something along the lines of, _'Your pale blood wrung from torment, Your nocturnal deathsick moon'_. There's no proper translation. And the whole collection is just... messed up. It's full of gore, rape, and mocking of God."

Gaz seemed to think far too hard for someone like himself. He tossed the information around his head, and the blue of his eyes seemed to tumble with it. ˮYou think I'm crazy", Toni stated blankly.

Bale paused. Genuinely, not apologetically. ˮYou know I might have. If I didn't feel something yesterday. I saw and heard nothing, but... there was this feeling that cost me the entire night of sleep. It was like that piercing sensation of..."

„Being watched", Toni finished after the Welshman had trailed off. They locked eyes. And neither burst out laughing like each of them thought and they would write it off as a joke or a strange coincidence. There's already too much happening that would make it just a coincidence. If it was, they wouldn't be sitting outside the motel on cold stone stairs, surrounded by police and medics.

„I don't wanna stay here anymore, man", Toni said, staring up at the front of the house. ˮI'd rather just get poisoned and spend a few days in a hospital, miss a game or two regardless of the outcome. I just... I never even complain about these things, you know that, but the moment I stepped under this roof, things have just been... not right."

Bale wanted to tell him he understood. He wanted to tell him that he knew how he felt and that they were all in this together, no matter which side you turned it to. He wanted to tell Toni that all was going to be okay, not out of principle, but because he obviously needed him to and because it wasn't fair that Toni would always have to be the one to say that to all of them every time, but nobody never does it for him.

But he didn't. Gareth's mouth kept coldly shut even after Kroos wordlessly departed.

Police and ambulance left in late hours of the morning, having found nothing after they searched the whole house. In hindsight, they seemed glad to be able to do so regardless of who it actually was they were questioning because they were getting visibly annoyed by the lack of proper evidence, and, evidently, the 'made-up nature of the questioned statements'. It only managed to agitate the team and practically leave them back on square one.

It seemed that the daytime, as it pours life into nature, poured some of it into Lucas as well. His face turned from blank to pensive and although he became responsive again, he still refused to talk.

Sergio was on the phone and for a while the only audible thing was him shouting. It didn't matter who could or couldn't look past the rapid sentences: his slowly-turning livid expression couldn't mean anything good. There was heavy moisture hanging in the air and it crouched on the shoulders of all present like a giant harpy. Marco kept rubbing his eyes tiredly and Reguilón looked like he wasn't allowed to move in three days and was in a dire need to pee. All in all, they were all huddled at the front steps like crouching penguins implementing the only way to escape the nonexistent cold.

Finally, Ramos lowered the phone with lips pressed into a hateful line towards whoever was on the other side, which quickly came to light to be hotel service. He raked clawed fingers through an untamed hair that could've barely seemed to wait for an opportunity to be disheveled as it was now and was strutting on the top of the captain's head like overgrown grass.

„Well?" Marcelo dared to ask eventually. Isco squirmed beside him on his spot on the stairs which were previously owned only by Kroos and Bale, but as far as mute unspoken messages could travel among the entire team, they all decided for themselves that entering the house was way below basic discomfort under their butts on the list.

Sergio blew an irritated sharp breath through his nose. ˮNothing. I tried. They're still clearing the space out."

„What does that mean? We don't get a say in it at all?" Llorente gestured in disbelief. ˮOur judgment doesn't matter?"

„Our judgment never mattered, dude", came a glum reminder from Benzema. ˮCan you recall the last time we had a word in anything? We are just chessboard pieces, we can't move on our own."

„Alright, metaphors are the last shit I wanna hear right now", Carvajal interrupted, not maliciously. His attention skidded back to Ramos. ˮSo if the caution regarding poison is so-to-speak still in the air, can't we just grab the nearest, normal hotel? I mean, I wouldn't see the problem considering who we are. Not to blow any trumpets, but we are supposed to have some kind of privilege."

„Because it is exactly who we are that makes things all the more complicated", Sergio growled, clearly frustrated. ˮFinancies are the least of the problems. We can whine all we want, but by the time the management arranges reservations, bus ride, security, expense and other less formal things like meals, it will take at least three or four days. Sorry to break it to you, but we can't just hop from hotel to hotel like normal people, because, on paper, that's not what we are."

„I hate to say this", Luka sighed, ˮbut I agree. In the eyes of the club and the public, our safety is in the best interest, and no detail can slip past all security precautions."

„So what now?" asked Nacho.

The captain sighed. ˮOne night. They asked us for one more night, and that's all."

„You sure about that?"

The look in Sergio's eyes turned determined. It was the same look he would give to the press after a lost game that was saying, ''This isn't over. We _will_ come back stronger and nobody can stop us.''

„If it doesn't happen, I'm fucking everything off and packing my shit anyway. I'll walk there and end up in the fucking hospital myself if I have to."

There was a couple of nodding heads among the sitting company, but all eyes Ramos met devotedly agreed with his statement. Either they were all in or nobody was. The world isn't going to make pawns out of them.

„Okay, so let's just... go over the problems for this final night, if there were actually any in the first place", Keylor voiced, bringing his palms together; a halo bracelet with ten small rocks constricted his wrist like God's handcuff. ˮI don't know what happened tonight, I can honestly admit I slept well both nights until..."

He briefly eyed Lucas here, and Lucas briefly eyed him, but there was nothing more communication-wise shared among anyone else.

„Let's just try to solve this rationally, like normal people", the goalkeeper continued. ˮLet's just- just stick to the facts, okay? Let us all pretend to be first-class ten-times-won-Nobel-prize scientists for a moment."

Even as he was using humor, Keylor spoke so professionally that no one had a need to laugh or interrupt him. ˮI want you all, whoever experienced something they considered weird or possibly not normal in the past two nights to say it out, and we're gonna slowly go over it and try to rationalize while at the same time keep in mind that we aren't in some overrated, low-budget American horror movie. We have time, they canceled the training for us as soon as they heard what happened, so we're clear for the day. Good?"

It was a solid agreement, one that everyone could attest to, but somehow it took time before anyone dared to speak up first, and it turned out to be Varane.

„I, ah... didn't think it was that important, and I asked the medics who told me it was iron, or rather, lack of it", he carefully pulled the leg of his pants up. ˮBut I have to express my genuine doubt because... it's still unbelievable to me that it would show this much if that was the case. I'm not anemic. And this seems like something more sporadic than that."

Reactions Rapha got for his new unwanted body decoration were similar as the day before, only same as the occurring bruise: bigger.

„When did it happen? On training?" Marcelo was baffled by the size of it.

„I don't think so, I would've noticed. It only came to my attention this morning."

„Shit", Karim breathed. He didn't dare run a finger over it out of fear that he would harm his friend. The bruise looked like an injected tattoo experiment gone wrong, and it varied in sickly blue, grey, pink and purple colors. Not to mention the way it looked didn't fall into step with how a normal bruise even this size would look like. It was like someone had literally sprinkled paint from inside of Raphaël's leg into some morbid example of tachismic expressionism.

Nacho pointed a finger. ˮYou know, I read an article once that it takes a special level of neurosis for the man to start harming himself in his sleep, and you'd have to be particularly stressed for that. Are you doing okay, Rapha?"

When Rapha frowned back at him, he looked bluntly offended. ˮOf course I am, what- - I- I don't even know what that means, I'm fine. I'm happy, I generally can't give half a shit about what's going on off the field, you know that. I swear, nothing is wrong with me."

„Doesn't look like that when you look down your leg", Álvaro reminded.

„Alright, so in conclusion", Keylor lifted his hands. ˮYou hurt your leg somehow, it doesn't matter how, it's happened. Does it hurt?"

Rapha tested it again like something was bound to change from earlier this morning, and, judging how one of his eyelids twitched, the confirmation wasn't needed. ˮYes."

„You're lucky not to be having to do anything today, then. The doctors said iron deficiency, yes? Well, if there is anything I have learned in all of my years of living, it's how human beings are prone to exaggerating regarding their physical health. Like that story with googling headache and getting back a brain tumor. I believe the solution is as simple as the medics said, as mostly is the case. There's nothing more to it."

With that said, the others opened about their discomforts like flower petals; Asensio, Toni, Gareth, even Lucas at some point, and, surprisingly, Dr. Navas had them all calmly covered up with a perfectly simple and logical explanation.

„We are all tired", he finished his class. ˮLet's admit it to ourselves, we are. And I'm not talking about the last two days. We are generally exhausted, some of us old dogs chronically, and things like these are likely to happen, manifested through some sensory discomforts like sleepwalking, nightmares or night terrors, _or_ temporary anemia. Particularly with these... average standards surrounding us that we aren't used to. But you all need to relax. There is an entirely logical explanation for everything that has happened and I don't want any of you to worry. We have enough worries over our heads as it is. The game is the day after tomorrow, and we need to be well rested. There is no time or place to afford screwing around with mundane things. Chin up. Everything is alright."

Ramos grinned. He would look cheeky were it not for his eyes that blitzed relief and gratitude. ˮThank you, Doc, for doing the hard part for me. Now listen, everyone. _Carpe diem_. We have a day off, but it doesn't mean we won't use it. We're gonna take off somewhere and we're gonna have a good time. There's nothing to worry about. I promise you all."

True to the captain's words, they took the bus to the city and went around in small groups like your typical tourists, and it was funny in a way because it made them feel normal, if only for one entire day. That is, until they were sporadically spotted by observant passers, and even then gladly obliged to take pictures and sign papers.

As the sun dipped low and they all gathered in a fancy restaurant together, it was almost believable that the whole previous night along with its oddities was practically forgotten like nothing had happened at all. Even Lucas loosened up, not quite back to his old self, but Toni, who was normally very moderate with this sort of thing, rose a few shot glasses to that. His disoriented alcohol-unused-to self was a joy to laugh at. In the end, undoubtedly, they felt like a whole family again.

It was a utopic blissful scenario compared to what followed next and tumbled a tower of cards down to fallout. There was nothing that could've prepared them for what was coming.


	4. Posession (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Muchas felicidades_ to Nacho and Maria and their beautiful baby Guille (I'm gonna call him Will and nobody can stop me), to Keylor and Andrea on baby Thiago, and _herzlichen Glückwunsch_ to Toni and Jessica for newborn baby Fin <3 So many babies! Now we wait on Isco Junior-Junior and... are those baby boomers done? :( Not to point fingers, but I specifically remember Casemiro say about Anna Mariana how she is the woman of his life and _ˮI want to have a lot of kids with her.“_
> 
> I apologize for the delay. I had to restart this more times than I could count and threw half of it in trash because I was never satisfied. Also, college took a bigger toll than I expected, and every time I tried to type, the inspiration was just dried out, so I had to push myself through at most times because nothing a writer starts should be left unfinished. His readers don't deserve it.  
>   
> 

Eventually, every imaginative gigue had to slow down to the halt of realism. And this gigue was more a defensive mechanism against holding off the inevitable, which was eventually having to ride back to the two-story hostel they were residing in. The evening announced the night was going to be moonless and cloudy, wrapped fully in the night's thick cloak. It hardly helped their efforts to disguise the final night into something close to comfort.

So when Isco walked into the room to gather the last of his stuff — on Sergio's command, they were going to do a small re-arrangement around the rooms. Isco was going to join Carvajal while Nacho will keep an eye on Marco during the night considering he was more likely to wake up at supposed sleepwalking than Isco — he is momentarily taken aback by the sight. There is Asensio, by the bed, tieing a lengthy, not very tough-looking piece of clothing around his left wrist. The other end is attached to the bed's leg, by the nightstand.

Marco looked up when he felt his presence, and this time a gentle blush of embarrassment that caressed his cheeks was nothing to mock him about.

„I would like to stay in bed this night, and if the means to do it reach a certain level of senile, then so be it", the younger explained, tightening the knot. With frustration that was directed in doing it, Isco feared for the safety of Marco's bloodstream.

He just nodded, biting his lip. ˮCan I... help somehow?"

Marco looked at his friend quizzically and Isco knew he heard the unspoken: ''I'm sorry I didn't do anything even when I didn't know 'anything' was going on.'' Marco was kind-hearted and honest, and still full of childish innocence, even as someone from outside the locker room would probably never realize. However, he could read people well, and for the most part, didn't need specific explanations. The essence of the matter was in equal measure simple and frustrating. Marco could never hold a grudge against his midfielder friend only because he had a deep sleep. And even if he didn't, there was no proof to suggest he was waltzing out of bed overnight and faced unexplainable creepiness in the middle of the night. Maybe he _was_ going crazy. Maybe they all were.

„You didn't do anything", Marco said.

„Exactly", Isco retorted. ˮThat wasn't fair. I should be here for you. I'm your friend."

„What could you have done?" Marco told him. ˮI didn't even know if what happened last night was just a very lucid dream before Lucas freaked out. I don't know if I'm losing my mind or is my brain doing this to itself and I should have myself checked. I don't—"

Marco's voice shivered and Isco could see desperation in his eyes getting obscured by persistent tears. Desperation. Zidane once told them about it. Hope is stronger than fear, but the only thing that can defeat hope is desperation. It is a virus crouching in every man, waiting to be set loose by a frustrating set of events. It is the only certain card to drive a person to madness and self-destruction. The only fate worse than death. This, he said, is why hope was so important. It is the only thing keeping desperation at bay, like a corporal firewall.

Isco walked over and embraced his friend without hesitation. Marco hugged back as fiercely as he could with his right hand; his left, limited by the improvised rope, gripped the older midfielder's elbow.

„I want to go home", Marco practically squeaked. At which point Isco's father side kicked in and when he spoke, it was a voice mainly reserved for his son when he was upset.

„We will. The game is in two days, and we're gonna spend the next night in a nice, normal hotel and we're all going to get a full, _normal_ night of sleep, and everything is going to be fine. You'll see. We'll kick ass at the game and when we come back this will be something to laugh about and tell our friends as a ghost story for a campfire circle. It'll be fine, you hear me? Come on. _Yo soy tu picha—_ " 

He flashed him one of his complacent grins that was bait for other teammates' hands to swat themselves over his head, but it managed to elicit a genuine smile from Marco, and its sole purpose seemed to increase in significance tenfold.

„ _Y tu eres mi bro_ ", Asensio agreed. ˮThank you, Isco."

Isco skipped out of the room just as Nacho was walking in. He dropped his bag next to Isco's now-former bed, frowning at the fact it wasn't made (cue, the difference between a married and unmarried man?). The defender looked at Marco's leash, then up to his eyes. Before Marco could start to feel embarrassed or shrug to cover it up, Nacho gave a sweet, understanding smile.

„It will be alright, _chavalin._ "

  
  


Nacho, a father of three children, whose ear canals have grown used to Guille's complaining sessions during the night, pre-practiced with Alejandra and Junior, and whose lookout pillars have mentally grown to the point where any out-of-the-ordinary sound or gut feeling could penetrate through the deepest layers of sleep, remained blissfully asleep when Marco got up from his bed and walked out of the room.

With no expression whatsoever on his facial features or cold, dead eyes, he sat up using the right hand until it loosened up the knot over the left wrist. The cloth fell soundlessly to the floor like a soft flower petal. Then the midfielder awkwardly stood up and walked across the room in the manner of a statue that was just brought to life and was trying to get used to the fact it was a living being as fast as it could. In fact, he could pass for a ragged doll with invisible strings being controlled from somewhere above his head in an amateur fashion.

Asensio's feet thumped and dragged across the floor clumsily, the un-expression on his face remaining the same. He walked past a lightly snoring Nacho. One of the controlling strings shot the arm up to grab the doorknob, acting like a heavy bear paw trying to break into the pantry. Marco walked out and half-pulled the door behind him; they softly creaked to a stop a slit from closing while Marco trotted down the hallway.

Nacho slept on.

  
  


As it stood, Nacho and Isco switched rooms, Sergio took Vinicius' bed to keep an ear and eye out on Odriozola while the Brazilian youngster went to join his fellow compatriots in the four-bed room, and Rapha got to take Sergio's single-bed room. It wasn't guaranteed to change or help with anything, but at least they could all say they tried.

Varane had a peaceful, undisturbed needed rest. He slept about as carelessly as any other night, despite being obviously concerned for his health earlier that evening. The bruises didn't fade or succumb to hemoglobin trying to be an underground self-made Bob Ross. He thought of pointing it out, but the state Lucas was in seemed much more important than something the Frenchman sees nearly after each game. It's the defender's catch. They are the goalkeeper's wingers. It _is_ a wide goal after all. Someone has to keep it safe on all sides. Nevertheless, Varane was somebody who liked to compare his concern to the others rather than keep it for himself and flat-out being called a pussy like a lot of players he knew. He slept better at night just knowing there were people with worse problems than him.

Then he was awoken. Not immediately. He took a few moments to realize he was awake, and that there was something else but silence in the room with him. A soft, rhythmic thumping. Not unlike drops of water dripping into the sink, slowly, but determinedly. Each drop was flinched at and gravely anticipated. Like Chinese water torture.

Varane stirred and slowly opened his eyes. It took him very little time to locate where it was coming from.

Behind him.

Instantly, Rapha could feel his heart start up like a racecar. It hammered against his chest in a way he hadn't felt since he was a kid. The all-familiar feeling that made him want to pull the covers over his head, leaving only one small gap enough to breathe through, imagining his teddybear pulling out a sword and charging dauntlessly at... at...

Taken over by pure fear, Raphaël started to turn around, dreading of whatever he will see that is making that humdrum noise.

Until it stopped.

  
  


Marco reached the bottom of the stairs. The old clock ticked its way through the night, but this time went unnoticed by the midfielder. Asensio paused abruptly in his step like someone pulled him by the back of the shirt.

Slowly, his expressionless face turned right towards the dark hallway to the left of the stairs.

  
  


Rapha stared.

On the other side of the room stood a silhouette of a figure. Varane jolted into a sitting position when he turned all the way over his hip, fight or flight instincts at the ready, but a heart attack later made him able to recall the name the back of the head belonged to.

Álvaro faced the wall completely still, strong figure dressed in a white t-shirt and flannel pants. Rapha remembered Regui making fun of them last week which was when Odri declared he crossed him off the roommate list until he apologized, which the former didn't have intention of doing anytime soon.

Varane moved, flinching at the loudness the sheets were making while he was getting up on his feet. ˮOdri?" he whisper-called. When left without response, he gulped. His heart didn't have the intention of stopping the chugging train. He recognized his teammate, but something still didn't leave him be. Something still kept him tense and sharp like violin's highest string.

His palms were sweating and he made another hesitant, shaky step. He was never hesitant. And that he was now, before his own teammate – that was the thing that fueld the fear he already felt. ˮHey... are you okay? Álvaro?"

Rapha didn't even hear himself over the blood rushing through his ears. He couldn't even register if the latter was breathing. This silence was making him uncomfortable. He thought of videos of cats approaching an unknown object with focused caution, ready to jump away in any moment.

Then the young defender moved. He made a weird grunt in his throat and put his palms on the wall, one by one.

Horrified to the pit of his stomach, heart speeding up and falling to his heels, Raphaël watched with his own eyes how Odriozola's limbs moved slowly, but effortlessly up against the wall like some sort of a grotesque gecko. The Frenchman wheezed instead of a scream he meant to produce, like a fish on dry. His legs became limp while Álvaro crawled all the way into the corner, upside-down, and made his stop there. His athletic knees were sticking out and where the face was meant to be was hidden in the shadows. He was making horrible noises that didn't belong to him.

Rapha was panting now. He had no idea when he had fallen over, and he had no idea how to scream. He was just frozen. All the experiences he had with old phones malfunctioning came back to him. Now he thought he knew how they felt.

Odriozola's figure didn't move, ever still just like before. Rapha searched for something in the shadows of where his face was meant to be. A glimmer of light reflected against the orbs of his eyes, an indication of a breath, the flash of white of his teeth... but there was nothing he could find. He with the eyes sharp enough to clearly locate the ball on the other side of the stadium. The figure was as stiff and silent like it was part of the furniture.

„Álvaro?" he wanted to call out, but only managed to choke on the name and make a weird squeak. He knew it was because this was not Álvaro, and he knew it wasn't him. Notion like that didn't require brilliance or logical doubt.

Finally, the thing that looked like Álvaro lifted its head. When it opened its mouth to speak with the voice Álvaro's vocal cords could never produce, the room turned twenty degrees colder, drifting the words along the dense steam that emerged from his mouth like a cocoon on the wind.

„ _Play the hand you're dealt, young man._ "

The sentence was in French.

Somewhere along the way of final moments of comprehension, Raphaël realized he had pissed himself.

  
  


It was quieter than usual when Marco woke up. He knew it because this is the quietest he had ever woken up to. It wasn't in the incomprehensible silence that usually just wasn't there when you woke up, but the feeling that wrapped a plastic bag around the room and hermetically sealed it off from the rest of the world. Like its sole purpose was to not allow air alone to move, so Marco held his breath until eventually having to relent before his gluttonous lungs. He opened his eyes abruptly.

It was cold. It was basement-cold. The hard surface under his body radiated coldness and absorbed all warmth from the right side he was laying on. Blood in Marco's veins began transferring it everywhere else and he suppressed a shiver; the stone floor was cold to the touch under his palms when he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

The room was shrouded in darkness that wasn't as obscuring as per basement standards. Grey-ish undetectable light seemed to come from everywhere around him and fell at odd angles. Feeling drowsy, Marco looked around. A small pixie began fluttering its agitated wings somewhere inside him. It was concerned and petrified, but Marco wasn't. Not yet.

He let his eyes wander around the things scattered around the cold damp room. Strange things he didn't know the use of or feared to name them. Their outlines resembled giant thin-legged insects of various sizes, still as night. Their intent might've been to blend into the flat surface, but their color was doing a poor job in realizing that intent. They were over the floor, the walls, the wardrobe, and the tools-filled shelf...

Wait. This isn't right. Why were the wardrobe and the shelf on the ceiling?

Marco squinted, thinking his mind was playing tricks. He looked around, observing the darkness that didn't allow light to approach. This is not what he had gone to sleep to, he was sure. Panic, like a drawn-back tide, was slowly coming back to him from a distant memory. Nacho. He had fallen asleep with the sight of Nacho scrolling through the phone in Isco's former bed with the feeling of safety at having a secure grip of cloth around his left wrist.

But no. Marco lifted his left hand hoping to be able to invoke the missing item of security by intense staring alone, but his wrist remained bare. And the room wasn't shaken into a lighter, warmer, safer version of a two-bed room he was hoping that just maybe _this once_ , he could stay in for the remainder of the night and call it sanity.

This is when he realized. The scattered things weren't insects. They were words, written in decades, maybe centuries-old black paint, faded out at places and taken over by moist and mold. Like graffiti on an urbex location, each begging for his attention.

No. Not words.

Names.

And somehow, without individual counting, he just _knew_ there was seventy-two of them.

Marco was sitting upside-down on the ceiling, in a circle of flat carved-out smooth piece of stone surrounded by engraved letters with no defined font, scratched in aggressively like madman's absurdities in the sponge material of the cell walls.

_Ab Abusu Ad Usum Non Valet Consequentia_

There was an abrupt rattling slurping noise. Marco shocked his head to the right. There still wasn't much he could see under the wing of artificial darkness, but the young midfielder strained to see through it nevertheless. There was a barely distinguishable shape in the nearest corner. He couldn't identify it. Something glimmered in darkness against weak light of the small window, coming from the darkest pit of the corner. Long and poppling. It thinned out and dropped on the floor, making a soft 'tock' on impact that seemed louder than dynamite. Marco followed its path to see what it was. Saliva.

Just as he thought of it, the silhouette moved, very much alive. It crab walked towards him across the ceiling and reached him in bizarre, inhuman speed. It was so fast that Marco's brain barely registered what it was. Faintly grey and emaciated humanoid shape with a joint too much on each disgustingly long, rod-esque limb. There was little else he noted about the body because he was too busy looking at the head. Sickly wrinkled skin like the face had been drenched in water for weeks. Huge eyes with no eyelids or irises, bulging out of the head, each looking its own way. Way too big in proportion compared to the rest of the face. Long, misshapen nose and something that could've been called a mouth only in the most generous sense of the word gaped at him as they simultaneously grew, dripping drool akin to a poorly wrung faucet. Stretched into a toothless grin like a black hole.

Marco didn't think his scream lasted long, but it was the loudest and most terrified he had ever screamed before.

  
  


Gareth Bale was awake. He was already sitting up and rubbing his eyes before he even realized he was kicking. The Welshman frowned, swaying on the edge of confusion precipice for a moment or two. He thought he heard the final echos of a faint whisper, but prescribed it to the leftovers of a forgotten dream. Bale looked about quickly, like he's spent most of the night two days prior, but predictably, saw nothing unusual.

Luka was next to him, snoring safely in bed, mouth open in a catastrophic, but simultaneously innocent way that he'll be just as baffled at having as anyone else if you woke him up. But snoring is a lot like being drunk; you won't believe you did something unless someone filmed you.

Gaz had no desire or plan to bother so even as Luka's obnoxious noises penetrated through the soft sponge of his earplugs, and concluded he was just going to have to deal with it for the rest of the night. He gave a big yawn and turned to lay on the side, when he noticed it.

The door to the room. Gaping wide open.

Fatigue was immediately gone like a light switch. Bale removed the plugs and Modrić's noise-making popped louder like accidentally enhanced volume on the phone. He strained to hear past it and point all his sensory nerves to the hallway to hear any safe sound of someone shuffling or talking or anything. But it gave him nothing.

The striker threw his legs over the bed's edge and stood. His head spun like a children's top from some opiate weakness and he rubbed his eyes. He walked slowly to the door with a tense step that was ready to abruptly change direction if needed. And where his legs would take him then, Gareth didn't know. Probably behind Luka's back. Exactly what Bale's legs dreaded didn't reach his stream of consciousness.

The Welshman's head peeked outside and saw nothing. He thought he heard barely audible music, but whenever he'd try to focus deeper, he wouldn't hear anything anymore. Like his own mind was creating a provoking illusion deep in the inner ear. The air had a scent of moisture and Bale was permeated by the cold. Something else hung in the air. Something that made him want to run for the hills like Frodo from Shelob's den or the _SS Venture_ crew from the Insect pit.

Then he heard a clear sound which had hairs on his arms and back of the neck straighten at attention like synchronized soldiers and the urge to run grew above the red line. Soft squeaking echoed from across the room and the undetected music provokingly tickled his attention again, but Gareth forcefully shoved it away. He did a slow turn like a ballet dancer in a tense scene and looked at the narrow balcony door still opening to the inside with stage slowness. The curtains swayed on the newly arrived wind like sunrays breaking the ocean surface, reaching their fingers as far as they could. Cold air sneaked into the room akin to a bright-eyed cougar. The one that was there to devour.

Bale grazed his gaze across Luka who whose snoring sonata wasn't interrupted. He pondered whether to wake the midfielder up, but what would he say? Hey, Luka. The balcony opened on its own. The answer would be, followed by a tired, unamused frown, ˮWhat? You aren't capable of closing it yourself? Gaz, you're bigger than me."

Yes. To close the balcony door. It was probably the wind's fault because the latch bolt was loose and old, and Luka probably didn't close them well after he had his fill of fresh air before bed, gaze distant and pensive.

However, the closer Bale got, the less convinced of his thoughts he was. The goosebumps he felt in the hallway were null and void as opposed to ones that grew now, like an unstoppable termite colony preparing for an attack down his arms, neck, and back.

Gareth no longer pretended to guess what to expect. A memory comes back to him of a feeling from two nights before. General terror mixed with incapability of movement and sound making. How he was convinced something horrible was going to happen if he made the slightest movement to get out of bed or call for his friend a meter to his right. He felt like a child petrified of a being under the bed and it had nothing to do with wild imagination.

Gareth felt a curious taste in his mouth. It was like a time-gnawed brass that turned that dim kind of blue-green over the decades.

The striker stepped on the cold stone slowly, feeling his prostate climb up to his stomach. Cold bit his bare feet and hands when he caught the ornated black railing and looked over. And all of a sudden, the feeling was gone. The hairs lowered to their place, the muscles in his legs calmed down and galvanizing disorientation was gone.

He released a loud sigh and felt heavy rocks rolling off his shoulders. He felt thirty kilos lighter. Maybe this was why Luka preferred to be out here. He figured it right away.

Gareth stared at the woods-piled terrain, not feeling coldness climbing up his legs like a swarm of insects. It was chilly and soundless save for the distant sounds of the nearby city and persistent sawing of Luka's throat, but there was no wind and his feet could go numb for all he cared. He thought he would be just fine spending the rest of the night outside until fatigue would drag him back to bed, and debate about how the hell he was supposed to play the tomorrow's game right in the morning during breakfast.

Wait.

No wind.

The striker frowned, connecting the dots with night slowness.

Suddenly, something snatched him by the shoulders and pulled him up, above the doorframe, out of sight with the ease of an eagle lifting a groundhog, eerily fast for an athlete who weighted as much as Gareth.

Simultaneously, Luka jolted to a sitting position with unexplainable intensity like someone stabbed him in the chest. Just like his friend, the midfielder blinked furiously, fighting the fatigue to come around as quick as this bolt made him. Something akin to a shriek resonated in his ears. Or was it music? He lost the capability to tell them apart and at one point had an impression all sounds were the same, evolved from and around one single sound.

Then he came to his senses and looked left, to an empty bed and tossed sheets, then at the opened door of the room.

„Gaz?"

Unlike Bale, Luka left his own bed without hesitation and looked into the hallway, ignoring the poking cold. He saw Gareth's earplugs laying on the nightstand. It opened his brain highways and he strained his ears to hear where their owner had would be the most logical answer, but no form of illumination was coming from the gap at the bottom of the door. Luka tried to find the reason why anyone in their right mind would blindly aim for the toilet bowl in the dark, and frowned. No noises reached from the dark room, or from the hallway, speaking of which.

Out of the blue, a loud muffled thud came from behind him and he turned in a flash. Appalled, it took him a moment to see something lying lifelessly on the concrete floor of the balcony. He hadn't even noticed the door was open. Luka ran over without thinking and only halfway there realized what he was looking at.

„Gareth!" Luka yelled and crashed to his knees next to his unconscious friend, turning him around with shaky hands and odd amount of effort. At least he hoped it was unconsciousness. The midfielder looked at his face.

„Gareth. Gareth, what have you done... Oh, my God, no... _O, Isuse Bože..._ "

His eyes swerved up at the edge of the roof. The height was barely over two meters and definitely not something high enough to provoke unconsciousness. Then he looked back to the room again. The door was still gaping open.

„Help! Somebody, come here! Please, help! Get over here, right now!"

Modrić was exchanging shouts into the room and endeavors to ensure his friend was alive. Gareth was limp, heavy and serene-looking. Like he was sleeping, but far from it at the same time. Comatose. That was the word. He looked comatose. And it frightened Luka to no ends.

He heard hurried loud steps and saw Dani approaching; his dark brown eyes were stamped to the striker's motionless body. He looked to be just as suddenly shaken awake as Luka had been and just like him, his expression instantly gained more life when he saw the sight.

„What happened?" the shortest defender in the world asked, sifting Bale like he was planning to rob him.

„I- I don't know. I didn't see, I think he... fell", Luka spilled, realizing how ridiculous and impossible it sounded, but the only thing providable.

„Fell?" Carvajal parroted accordingly and looked up in disbelief. ˮHow..."

Here is when Isco approached who woke up by some miracle, or Dani automatically hit him awake along the way when he heard Luka's frantic yells.

„Gaz", he called, much like the other two. ˮGaz!"

They shook him for another moment, feeling his wrists and throat, lightly slapping his cheeks and calling his name. And then Bale jerked back to life out of the blue and screamed as if scalded with a fuming poker. He started to kick and flounder in some post-comatose trance despite the effort of others to calm him down.

„Gareth, it's alright, you're okay", Luka spoke to him, relieved beyond mind. He held the Welshman's hand in a firm grip of a cliff-hanger savior, but Bale still had a facial expression of complete fright.

„Where is Marco?" he panted like he was running back to consciousness. His forehead was gushing out crumbles of sweat.

„Gaz just- -"

„ _Where is he?!_ "

„Gareth, calm down", said Dani. ˮYou fell from the roof. I think. We don't even know how you managed to do it but—"

„No. _No!_ Listen to me", he yelped to outvoice him. ˮWhere is Asensio? We need to find him."

„Gaz, what are you—ˮ Isco tried, only to be interrupted as well.

„No. You don't understand" Bale shook his head. He held Luka and Dani's wrists in a steel grip. ˮI have seen it all. I was _shown_." He paused and, blue eyes opened wide, spoke the clearest Luka has ever heard him.

„It was never just one."

Modrić, Carva, and Isco all stared at him, trying to put their confusion into words, but all hell's efforts were dismissed when Nacho burst into the room, panting like rooms are parted several kilometers and he took a Spartan jog here. He looked shaken.

„Marco is gone!" he cried, aghast. Someone dashed down the hallway behind him. Toni and Lucas appeared behind the defender, and Lucas looked even worse than yesterday.

„What do you mean gone?" Isco bristled, visible uneasiness shimmering in his eyes. ˮHe could be anywhere in the house."

„But he's not", Gareth whispered and everybody heard him. But he wasn't looking at them. He was looking at Lucas. And Lucas stared back at him with frightened seriousness.

„You saw it", Bale said quietly, gaze not wavering.

Lucas looked back, and for a second it looked like he won't answer, but then he nodded, swallowing. He wasn't certain before. He didn't want to be certain, and Keylor's yesterday's discourse and the evening's visit to the city managed to tear him away from it long enough. But now he was completely, horribly sure. ˮYes."

The rest of them wanted to ask what the hell they were talking about, but no one succeeded. They watched the wordless, seemingly telepathic eye-battle until Sergio walked in. Breathless, furious, confused and no less frightened than the rest of them.

„Rapha and Álvaro are gone", he stated, ignoring the built-up tension in the room. ˮThe window of Odri's room is open. There is... something on the floor. I didn't see what. I don't want to know."

The audience kept coming, until the doorway and the front of the room were crowded. ˮMaybe they're in the bathroom." Casemiro half-heartedly tried to pull out a final dollop of rationality from this illogical mess. ˮOr, you know, went for a walk."

„Together on a toilet? That's a good one", Ceballos agreed. ˮAnd who goes out this late?"

„Call them." Ramos; undeterringly, sharply.

„Phone's dead", Toni said blankly, checking his and tapping across the screen like he intended to wake it up at all costs.

„Mine, too", related Karim.

„And mine", Luka said with undisguised perplexity. One by one, everyone tried to draw out life out of their devices without result.

Toni experimentally tried the light switch. Up and down. ˮNo power, either."

„Right. That's it. _That's it!_ " Ramos finally yelled. Any smoke of patience he might've had left by now was lost to the wind and he jumped with tightened fists like a spoiled child. ˮEverybody gather your stuff, only what you think necessary. I'm staying to look for the guys. The rest of you go and get help. I don't care in which way, shape or form. Ambulance, police, mountain rescue service, the agents, the driver of the fucking bus who drove us into this dump, fucking fans, homeless people, stray cats — I don't care. Just get the fuck out of this shithole. Run on foot if it's the only way. Run like hell. At once. Straight away. _Now!_ "

„Whoa, brother", Luka suddenly came to reason and his calm, firm voice which was a rehabilitating medium for the locker room, left his mouth. ˮYou're not going anywhere by yourself. I'm staying with you. If something really happened to them, you can't pull three people by yourself, and I don't care about your gym videos. You can sell that bullshit to somebody else."

„I'm staying as well", Dani said without hesitation whose one hand was still clutching Gareth's chest.

„Me, too“, said Nacho, although audibly with a lot less courage.

„Me, too."

„Isco, I don't think", Luka started, but the Spaniard cut him off with as firm glare as he could be taken seriously enough with.

„Marco is my friend. Twice I haven't been there for him when he needed me. Well, by God, I won't leave him this time. I owe him that."

„Good", Sergio nodded firmly, leader-like. ˮWe don't need more, there's enough of us. Otherwise, we'll be slow. Everybody else get out of here. Now. Karim, you will lead them. You'll be fine."

„I'm not going anywhere, I hope that's clear with you", declared a voice from the crowd. Sergio turned to refuse but was met with unphased, determined eyes of Keylor. The only one who could talk back to Sergio as much as he liked. With resolute and unwavering glare it was difficult not to see the goalkeeper as intimidating.

„Alright, alright, case closed", Ramos waved an arm impatiently. ˮGather your things, all of you. Try not to stall. We'll be right behind you."

They all moved to leave the room, when in that moment appeared Marcelo.

The Brazilian was as pale as he could be, and so serious that he appeared way older beyond his actual age. Aside from color, all signs of joy and cheerful, sunny spirit were drained from his face. He looked like he just received an inevitable diagnosis for stage four cancer which will ultimately devour his brain until it turns into slimy colorless gelatin.

He slid his eyes across the faces of each of them.

„We need to leave", he said quietly. ˮNow."

***~oOo~***

What Marcelo saw in the hallway couldn't be compared to anything any of them had seen. He dragged behind Karim and his fellow compatriot Brazilians taken by some weight that mashed every existing disturbance of the loud turmoil to Gareth and Luka's room where this agitated river was flowing from.

But he stopped mid-step. And when he stopped, time stopped as well and Mariano and Reguilón running down the hall to the room didn't do anything to break his assurance. In fact, they seemed to move in slow motion, not seeing the Brazilian stare. Nor was he seeing them.

He saw something else, way at the end of the hallway that jump-started his heart rate and made his legs stiffen up.

There, on the floor, was Liam. His son. Even from this distance, Marcelo would sure as hell recognize his own child. He sat cross-legged dressed in a familiar little Addidas tracksuit, with intertwined fingers in his lap. The little boy stared at his father with a look Marcelo had never seen before. The look that was much older than himself, and much older than Marcelo.

Time wasn't the only thing that stopped. Marcelo's breath did as well.

Liam cocked his head, dispersing every doubt that he might be but an illusion.

„I should say I find your expression funny, but as they say — too much repetition makes the matter dull.“

He said it exactly as Liam would say it. There was no mistaking it. It was the precise copy of Liam's voice, including a cute little lisp the little boy had on the letter 's' and innocent juvenility that will be sorely missed in a dozen more years. But those words could never come out of his mouth. They weren't his, and they sent the red flag shivers down Marcelo's body.

Liam grinned; the edges of his lips went up a little too widely even from this far, but somehow it managed to seem eerily possible. Before Marcelo could feel proper chills, Liam scrambled up and into the room to his right in a virtual blur, like a sped-up tape. Rapha's room.

Marcelo didn't want to go in there. He sorely didn't. The tears leaking down his cheeks begged him not to. But his body didn't ask for his opinion.


	5. Posession (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to think I thought this would be two to three chapters max... The naivete of a writer...
> 
> I apologize for this annoying procrastination I insist on doing, delaying you the end you so obviously deserve, but when the words keep coming, they multiply faster than rabbits and so I still have about 20 000 words behind this one. But I can promise you, the final chapter will arrive much faster, seeing as I only have one section left and editing to do. 
> 
> By all means, enjoy.

Nobody can be entirely compact on the field. Not even the best players. The unpredictability of everything that makes the present will take good care of it. However, in an endeavor to prevent the general spasm of collective panic, the _Galacticos_ were swift and effective, to the last one. Like in _Rondo_ , each pass was done with precision and belonging speed. The only thing brought were phones and wallets and nobody talked much, not even Reguilón and Vinicius.

Casemiro had to direct Marcelo around at times to bring him out of his trance and no questions helped open his mouth, even less when they were hurrying around the rooms, but Casemiro knew it had nothing to do with hurry.

Karim visibly tried to mask the more and more obvious nervousness and Ramos wondered if he was right about leaving him in charge. He knew how concerned he had to be for his friend and compatriot and that he would rather stay behind and help searching for him, but there was something else in Karim's eye, of opposite nature. Something Ramos realized was meant to be undetectable, but Benzema's surface was too transparent for its capacity. There, in that pitch, shameful darkness, Karim _didn't_ want to find Rapha. Ramos recalled the bruises the young defender showed them and felt clawing chills.

It was a tense expectant surprise when, little by little, the teammates were leaving the doorstep. They were jumping off the porch and skipping over the small set of stone stairs like kids on the last day of school, only unlike them, they didn't make a sound. Nobody made a single exchange in a whirl of confusion, fear, concern and not knowing what's going on. At this point, it was easy to see why they were so loud in the locker room.

Ramos stood outside on the porch with Karim, counting heads, but his eyes kept wandering off to the baren tree in the middle of the driveway. There was nothing on it. No leaves, no buds, no life.

No bird.

For some reason not seeing it scared him more than seeing it.

At the end of the driveway, Courtois pulled out his cell to check, but service was still out of reach. He looked back and caught Ramos waving him off in a wordless, frustrated command to keep going.

Toni was in the middle of the path, standing and not allowing himself to be pulled away with the runaway group — funny how life works. The way they were running off reminded him of the refugees. Hobos. And not millions of euros worth athletes unable to gather their ride. His attention wasn't occupied by the menacing tree like Ramos was, either, but by the Moon. Not quite full, but getting there. And knowing the summer nights spent stargazing with his wife and children, it should've been brighter. Particularly this size. Instead, it was painted over with a shade of grey like it was a shade of the real moon.

_'The nocturnal deathsick moon'_

Toni swallowed. This night wasn't like the other two. Something was going to happen today, and it had nothing to do with the wrong nature of the house.

Keylor appeared by his captain, squinting at their little evacuation plan.

„Sergio."

Ramos' attention instantly skidded forward to the team. There weren't as much as he had expected. With the lack of technical and personal staff, they looked like a group of tourists who had just wandered where they weren't supposed to.

„Please tell me this isn't the only worked-out part of the plan."

„Alright, I won't tell you."

Ramos' viewpoint did not waver, but he damn sure felt Keylor's eye daggers.

When Vinicius got out as the last of them, Karim toppled down the stairs after him, then paused, turned around and gifted Ramos with a gaze that was simultaneously firm, terrified, and took no excuses.

„Find him, yes?" he said. ˮFind them all."

„Don't worry about it", Sergio convinced him in the calmest voice he could find. ˮYou just go find help."

Karim nodded after a moment before running off with the rest.

Sergio looked on, watching Karim pause by the young Brazilian, lay a hand on his back and tell him something. The young man nodded and they ran off faster like they were in the middle of the training session and not in the middle of the night.

The captain watched until they rounded the bushes by the vacant main road. Before he could disappear behind them, Karim turned. Although he couldn't distinguish his face from this distance, Ramos felt his eyes on him. Unyielding. Stern. Promising. Then he, too, left. Far from here.

Ramos squinted. ˮThis was far too easy."

„Applaud that it is", Navas concluded without asking. ˮWe don't need additional stalling. We have to find the guys quickly. Come on."

He gave Sergio a nudge, but Ramos couldn't help but feel there's a catch behind this. There had to be one. Because in no world without a catch do your teammates start sleepwalking without explanation, seeing things on ceilings and grey crows crouching on dead trees.

Beyond duty, Ramos wished he had run off with the rest of them and never turned back.

But when he went back inside, he was met by a promised rescue expedition and every maladaptive theorizing stopped there. Those faces needed a leader. They were frightened under the cover of firmness and Ramos must've looked the most convincing in the said firmness because every eye was on him. Just like in any regular game.

„What do we do?" Luka asked.

Sergio looked at his Croatian brother, then slowly circled it around the rest of them. The clockless, windless, powerless silence was nerve-wrenching.

„We split."

  
  


Nacho was the only one to really protest the idea, but everybody else agreed it was the only solution. It would save them time and allow them to cover a wider spectrum of the building, so they parted in two groups. Three actually, given that in the middle of Ramos introducing his improvised plan, Carva announced he was going to round the house and search from the back and stormed out the door before anyone could stop him. Ramos sighed, shoulders slouching. He knew there was no use in arguing with that guy. Many have tried, and the same failed. Even the ones superior to him.

So it was decided that Sergio and Keylor would scan the downstairs and Luka, Nacho and Isco move upstairs.

Before he moved, Sergio grabbed a long thin brass stick from the coat hanger by the door, perhaps playing a braver version of himself. He had no idea what its use was, and couldn't picture what he could possibly use it for, but better to play it safe and be fully prepared for the unplanned than expect nothing and get mudded from your greatest Catalonian rivals in front of your own fans. Not the exact point, but all Sergio ever did was finding correlation.

Neither had registered it, but the clock in the lobby was silent. The tickings that accompanied Asensio before were gone.

Beside him, Navas was confident and Ramos gripped it harder than he gripped the rod, relying on his good friend like he mostly did, without the goalkeeper's knowledge. Some days it was more difficult to be the captain than the others. Knowing you had someone beside you who could back you up instead of asking you to back them up made those days bearable.

They crept quietly to the dining room. Ramos' feet in his white adidas sneakers creaked on the old wooden floor which looked easily burnable and each squeak jerked him alert every time, thinking he had given himself away not knowing to what. He only felt himself relax when he stepped on the carpet.

„Sergio."

The captain nearly jumped out of his skin at Keylor's voice, noticing only then just how tense each his muscle was. The goalkeeper, however, didn't look impressed at all by his lousy Tom-cruising skills and the lack of stealth, and the least of all, the murderous look he was given.

„Would you please stop looking like Tiger Woods taking a mean swing? We're trying to find the guys, not bash them square in the face."

Sergio blinked, lowered the rod he had no idea he was holding upwards in the exact manner Keylor described. ˮDon't tell me you're not at least bit suspicious", he justified.

„About what?"

Ramos generally gestured around the communal living room. ˮThis. _All_ this."

„I have nothing to be suspicious of. I haven't seen anything over the last three days we've been here. And you tell me now, how is it possible - no how is it _probable_ \- that of all of us", Keylor didn't make the same gesture, but it was certainly audible in his voice, ˮthere are still most who saw nothing at all."

„Hm", Ramos pouted in thought.

„What?"

„...I think you weren't _meant_ to see it."

„Explain."

„Think about it", Sergio went on. ˮToni, right? I've always considered him to be the most grounded person in this team. Strong, fierce, daring. And realistic. Undeniably realistic. In fact, I would've relied solely on him to discern right from wrong. Possible from impossible. How do you think he has 90+% of pass accuracy after each game?

So when Marco and Lucas kept rambling about something on the ceiling, he didn't roll his eyes, or scoff, or whatever 'Toni Kroos' thing he would do at something absurd. He didn't try to convince them they were making shit up. He looked horrified in that room, Keylor. He didn't say a word because he knew how insane it would sound coming from him. If I'm being honest, I don't think he still believes it, either. And Odriozola“, he shook an index finger, lips pressed into a thin line. ˮ...slipped right under my nose. And I bet I know where he went."

Keylor took a minute to think it over. ˮWhat's on your mind?"

„I believe there's nothing about this house that is wrong", Ramos explained his brainstormings. ˮBut I think whatever was _in_ this house went onto some of _us_."

It was time for Navas to squint and consider how much reason Ramos has left in his head after the outburst he had earlier. ˮI'm just going to assume you refer to something like virus. Because Lord knows I won't allow myself to consider the other thing."

„I think it hit the three of them the most", Ramos said in sincere assurance. ˮAnd they're all in danger."

  
  


While the theorizing pair snuck around downstairs, the trio slowly ascended up the stairs. Isco kept twisting his head all around like something might jump him and pulled the already nervous Nacho along. The poor fellow looked beyond himself. He looked like he regretted volunteering to stay behind in the first place, but the loyal part of him simply refused to run off so he was stuck between two tearing halves of himself, only glad that he wasn't alone. And he cursed the existence of something as tricky as loyalty to exist on this Earth.

„Isn't this the job police should do?" Isco inquired in a whisper.

„I can promise you, if I could call those guys telepathically, I'd instantly have them replace you right now", Luka told him, holding his phone to light their way. Isco reached into his pocket and checked his own.

„Right. Still no service." 

„I don't understand", Nacho blurted, looking behind him down the dark stairway every so often. ˮWhy send us here in the first place? I know we debated a lot about it already, but it still seems hardly believable that when it came to an adequate alternative for a football team this is what they had in mind. Regardless of what happened until now."

„I know, Nach. I know", Luka tried to calm him down. He patted the distressed defender on the back. ˮWe'll get through this. I promise you. We'll find them, then we can get lost and forget about this place. And _then_ we confront the accommodation arrangement managers."

They got to the top.

„Marco?" Isco whisper-shouted. The thin acoustic barely sent it somewhere along the hallway. ˮRapha? Odri?"

„Let's check the rooms", Luka suggested.

„Which we just left?" Isco crooked a puzzled eyebrow.

„Do you have a better idea?"

It was the _only_ idea. That was the essence of the search. The trio made sure they had lights and dispersed into separate rooms to check, and, taking precaution, Isco put a chair under the doorknob of a wide-open door to secure it against the wall and make sure it didn't shut closed. Just in case. Just in case.

He was in the old room where he and Marco had initially been. His former bed was messy, blankets and cushions dispersed from when Nacho had left it in the hurry to sound the alarm for the neighboring vacant bed. Marco's, less so. The covers were only neatly thrown back, but the long piece of cloth which served as a made-up kind of leash laid limply on the floor like the shed skin of a snake. Isco refused to have shivers which crept up his spine shake him and walked to the bathroom. Without entering, he scanned the inside with the torch of his phone, discovering it was as empty as it sounded. Then his feet walked him towards the tall wooden wardrobe.

Until he was near it he remembered the fact that the longer one searches for a thing they can't find, the more absurd places they start looking it at for. The nerves were eating him from inside out while he reached for the handle and he swung the doors open to get it over with, half prepared for something to jump him. It didn't, and the crook-legged midfielder let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Only clothes. Swishing them around thoroughly didn't make materializing either of the three on the spot happen.

Sighing, Isco turned around to leave and his gaze fell on the nightstand.

Marco's watch sat there, as did his phone. It made him believe Marco was nearby, just playing around and about to jumpscare them all and call Isco out for being a pussy. Like he would just walk out of the bathroom and say, 'I don't know what I had yesterday, but I've been hugging the toilet this whole while so I apologize if I'd made anyone worried.'

But of course, it didn't happen. It would be too idyllic. It would be normal.

This place pissed on the word 'normal'.

Isco walked over and took the watch. He pressed the screwed-in button. A round watch-sized plate jumped out of its body like the blade of a pocket knife. Isco stared at the picture of a middle-aged woman; dark-red hair, familiar dark eyes. Judging by her age, it was taken near the end, in 2011. Maria Willemsem. Marco's mother.

Staring into her photographed eyes, Isco felt a sense of duty and promise which was a newer feeling than he had ever felt it on the terrain. Their heaviness of responsibility sat on his shoulders which he hadn't felt before and wanted it off already.

„Isco."

He looked up. Luka was leaning in the doorway. Judging by the look in his eyes and how calculating he generally was, he figured out himself Isco had nothing.

„Come on. Let's keep going."

The older midfielder disappeared around the doorframe. Clicking the strap into place around his wrist, Isco pushed the plate back into the body of the watch and followed his friend.

  
  


Brave, brave, but headless Carvajal.

On his solo patrol along the walls of the house, he couldn't help but notice how bigger the place looked once he gave it a better look. In utter hurry, he threw the anthem jacket on himself like an idiot and now stood out in the dark like he was trying his best to do just that;

Obvious notion aside, the defender tried to be as swift and as silent as possible, avoiding clusters of dry leaves and branches. The walls covered in crumbling facade and mortar were cold under his fingers while he carefully checked behind each corner and ducked below the windows. He had no idea why he was being so cautious, but decades of playing video games likely tended to have that effect on a man.

There was no wind in the slightest, and it scared the crap out of him. The air wasn't moving and such thing didn't dwell under the dome of normal silence. The Moon was odd, too. Like he hadn't noticed. Looking up, Dani tried to deduce whether it was a thin veil of clouds obscuring it or some unique solar event he had missed hearing the news of, but the Moon didn't give him any answers farther than the very question he asked.

Nature didn't go to his favor. The phone torch will have to suffice.

He crouched again to waddle under a huge downstairs window no matter the closed curtains; the light swished across the ground like an insane portable sun and he stopped, ears sharp as snipers. His sneakers gave a silent squeak as their soles protested being in an unfavorable position. Dani looked ahead.

He was just about to move on when the bushes rustled to his left. Dani pointed the flashlight to the thicket, eyes blitzing the same direction. If the hairs on his body were needles he would be a full-blown porcupine right now. But he didn't dare move. The stiffness of his muscles was on autopilot. The bush sounded again, shaking provokingly quickly before something small and fast whisked out of it and across the leaves dashing for the trees. Carvajal suppressed a yelp and nearly lost balance in his crouch, but his torch had caught the culprit before he could disappear into the woods.

„Fucking dormouse", he muttered, straightening up. It seemed to have been more likely he was going to die of heart attack lower than in full height, which was ridiculous if he had ever come up with something like that.

He turned around to scan the perimeter when the light ray fell onto something much larger and much less subtle than a dormouse, only two steps from the defender. Now Dani really yelped and jumped away, heart smashing his ribcage.

„ _Shh!_ " the figure put a finger up to its lips. It was surely the significant, stoic frown that got to Carva first and allowed them to recognize the person. ˮStop yelling, it's just us."

„What's the matter with you?!" the short defender hissed. If he dared, he would've yelled, but he thought the livid, intimidating look on his face would be enough. But, of course, not intimidating enough for Toni Kroos. The German was as neutral as a mafia goon. ˮAre you trying to give me an early heart attack? I'm not in a mood of having to cut another Champions League final short, I've had it enough with my legs as it is."

Neutral, that is, except for his eyes, which were surely far from his usual, lid-hanging, squinting, calculating or 'I want to die just to get away from all of you idiots' hue. This time they expressed more than executive consideration each midfielder owns while shifting eyes between defense and offense. It was when it hit Carvajal.

„Wait, weren't you supposed to leave? And who is 'us'?"

Like ordered on a platter, Lucas walked up next to Toni. If fear in his eyes was anything to go by, he still hasn't entirely let go of what happened the day before. Carva remembered Gareth laying unconscious and thought he understood that look a little bit better, if not entirely.

Toni exchanged looks with Vázquez before drifting it back to Dani.

„You can't do this alone", Toni told him.

„I'm not alone, the guys are inside. They're looking for them."

„No, he means", Lucas mouthed; his voice was a bit more flabby than he might've wanted it to be, or couldn't help it, ˮyou don't know what you're doing. You haven't seen anything."

„Or heard", Toni related, eyeing the sky.

Carva squinted. Suarez hated that look, even as he was ten centimeters taller and would never in the world admit it. ˮWhat are you talking about?"

„Come on, no time to waste", Toni walked past him. ˮYou need help. It's like a regular game. Nobody goes alone. Come on."

  
  


The upstairs trio had little luck in their search. Every room was vacant and eerily still. Their things lay in their proper places, some improper as well, depending on the player. If a random person stumbled upon this building, they would've gotten a similar impression Sir Walter Raleigh and his colonists had when they sailed to the island of Roanoke in 1585. and founded a village. When Raleigh sailed back to Europe to bring more settlers he had no idea he was going to come back to a ghost island, finding everything abandoned. Like people had just left, with axes left against the half-cut trees, needles pinned through cloth pieces casually left on a chair, and the only clue being a word carved into a tree; _'Croatoan'_.

What would be their _'Croatoan'_ , Isco wondered, roaming around an empty hallway for the last room on their cautious, careful search. Did they even leave it? Better yet, did the reason behind the disappearance of the three leave it?

The sense of guilt and the sense of compression around his left wrist didn't leave him be and Isco knew that if the _'Croatoan'_ would turn out to be Marco himself... no. No, he wouldn't even consider it. He wouldn't. Because those were the movies talking. And this was all far from the big screen.

There was little else to try and think about to distract himself from every small noise he would make in this big void of quiet. Isco thought he first realized it on the first night when he was awoken and went to explore the source of the thuds half awake. That there was something seriously wrong with the general lack of sounds in this entire backbone of a place. Maybe if he, if anyone had realized that small, but important glitch, Marco and the boys would've been here, and they would've all been far away. Safe.

„Idiot", he whispered, standing in the middle of one of the rooms and using the light of his phone, but before he could decide as to whom it referred to, a series of panicked yelps made his heart run and his body jump.

It was Nacho, and he sounded hysterical.

„Guys! Guys, get over here, quickly! Come on, get here quick! Luka! Isco!"

Isco nearly bumped into Luka when he flew out in the hallway. Actually, they ran into each other like two torpedos launched by equally confused, ignorant submarines, but then wordlessly gripped the hell out of each other and ran towards the sound of their screaming friend, into the last room to the left. Sergio's former room.

Nacho was leaning out of the open window, gripping the apron and leaning outside, and in any other situation he would be pronounced drunk. But the two midfielders rushed towards him immediately. Luka nearly stepped into a dark splotch of something moist and uncomfortably stinking soaked into the thin carpet.

Nacho was nearly wheezing, pointing something at the foot of the house and Luka didn't immediately spy it.

„Nach, what am I looking at?" he asked hurriedly.

„L-look!" Nacho had to have been in some clutches of shock because he couldn't put it to words. He couldn't put anything sensible to words. ˮLook. D-down there."

„I don't see anything", Isco rambled, heart in his throat.

„ _No_ ", Nacho spat annoyed and scared out of his mind. ˮ _All the way_ to down there."

Luka blinked, still not getting it. Then he spotted it.

A path of splattered dark substance stretching in an erratic line down the length of the wall from the window. The only reason Luka hadn't tried to assume it was here all the time was the fact the moonlight reflected on its surface like a frozen brook. It disappeared at the basement window at the bottom, not a trace of it smeared along the glass.

„What is that?" Isco whined.

„Is that..." Nacho choked. In his half-livid state, he held out a hand to touch it but pulled it back an inch from so suddenly like it was a Tesla museum exhibit with the element of surprise.

„Don't touch it", Luka followed it up verbally anyway and leaned over to take a careful, better look himself. ˮI don't think it's... blood or anything", he sniffed. ˮIt's too dark to be one."

„D-do you think", Isco stuttered helplessly. ˮDo you think it has something to do with Rapha or someone else?"

„I don't—"

The three were interrupted yet again by a cluster of voices coming from out the door and down the hallway, and it took them a heart-racing moment to realize it actually came from downstairs, and in form of alarmed cries of Ramos and Navas.

  
  


Sometimes Thibaut disliked that he was built like a doorless garage frame where football balls had a good chance of being put off to as cars. But in this instance, his legs carried him to the front of the pack, but as a goalkeeper, it wasn't surprising that he was the one to slow to a much-needed stop first. Although, that wasn't the only reason. During his run, the Belgian had the phone screen turned on and kept a watchful eye over the vague signal bars in the top left corner.

He was getting worn out quickly, as shameful as it might be for one footballer, even a goalkeeper, but it was still at a very young age that the Belgian realized he wasn't meant for long-distance runs. Some people just weren't. Thus, the goalkeepers.

So when the first of signal bars turned white, relief that hauled Thibaut to a stop was bilateral.

The first who gained up was Vinicius; his sneakers toppled loudly on the dark empty concrete road as he slowed down next to the goalkeeper, wheezing his lungs out. ˮWhat- what did you stop for?"

„I've got it", Thibaut enunciated, ignoring the burning pain spreading along the soles of his feet.

„What?" Vinicius panted.

„He means service. I got it, too", Benzema squinted at his own screen, stopping at their side. Clearly not satisfied with the providence only one signal line gave him, he ran off somewhere further to catch a better one, if it was possible.

By that time, the rest of the squad joined witnessing Courtois wrestling with poor service in attempts to phone the police, and based on the look on his face, it could be seen he didn't know what he would concretely say to them if he managed to reach through.

In the commencing tumult now that the part of Sergio's original plan was over, Mariano gripped his hair. ˮI don't like this."

„I agree, me neither", Ceballos commented, trying to look nonchalant by crossing his arms and trying not to shiver. He watched Casemiro with a phone by his ear in one hand and Marcelo's forearm in the other. The other Brazilian stared numbly before him like his part that was supposed to be human wandered off away from the rest of his body. Not that Marcelo was trying to do the same. Nearby, devouring his nails, Bale was looking similar, although he had no one to grip his forearm to keep him grounded.

For some reason, the only thing Ceballos could think about was the end of ''One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', and same spine-chilling dullness in the eyes of Jack Nicholson as the one he was seeing on Marcelo. He wouldn't say what's gotten into him. He couldn't. They've all tried.

„No, I mean", Mariano continued, shoving his hands under his armpits even as he'd been running until now and the night was warm. ˮWe've been running all this was and... no car has even passed us by? No cars, no family vans, no trucks, no nothing?"

„It's four in the morning, Mariano. And this isn't exactly a busy road."

„Yes, but still..." the named striker looked up over the treetops surrounding both sides of the road and at the faint glowing corona of the city lights. He was sure that if it weren't for multiple voices on the phones at the same time, he would be able to hear a comfortable white noise of distant traffic. ˮHow can we be just outside the city... and it still feels like we're in the middle of fucking nowhere."

Ceballos had no verbal answer for him, but had doubts of his own. No other houses along their entire run, barely any street lights, no service and not even those huge power lines sticking out of the woods like thorns? And in the middle of all that one single building they called 'hostel'? And put one of the best football club's players in the world in it? Those definitely didn't add up.

Between the chatter, the phoning and general feeling of anxiety, little to no one paid attention to Benzema a few dozen meters away from the mob. He was talking vigorously into the speaker, but the person on the other side wasn't police, ambulance, bus drivers or anyone else. It was the club's main accommodation arrangement manager, and with every lack of cooperation or rather, comprehension, Benzema grew more and more nervous.

„I can barely hear you", a distorted voice was emerging from the other side of the phone. ˮWhat is the problem?"

„What's the problem?" Karim struggled to keep himself from yelling, although he hung on the verge of it. ˮThe damn building is out of power, half of our team is freaking out and a few of them went missing. We had to run outside down the road who knows how far just so I could make this damn call."

A second of puzzled silence on the other side and then, ˮI don't get half of what you're saying, did you say 'missing'?"

„Yes!" the yell had finally torn himself out of his throat and Karim fought against stomping in impatient frustration. ˮYes, they fucking disappeared in the middle of the night. I don't know to which flophouse you put us in, but you better do something about it right now. I'm in a shirt, boxers, and sneakers and all I have is my fucking phone, and this is the second night in a row where we're calling the police."

„The police?" Karim couldn't decide if the shock he was hearing was real or just a part of the administrative act. ˮUh, o-okay, Mr. Benzema. I'll call up the hotel management to see what this is about."

„And how on Earth are you supposed to do that?" Karim spat. ˮThere's no service, I told you. And there is no one to call there, but us. We are the only ones there."

The official stuttered. ˮI-I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

„What?"

A moment of silence. ˮSir, would you mind giving me your location?"

„For the third time, we're in the middle of nowhere. All I see is a damn straight road and miles of forest."

More silence on the other side. Then, hesitantly, ˮI'm afraid our informations don't match. Your hotel is in the city center, only a kilometer away from the stadium."

Benzema could feel blood drain from his face and was glad nobody could see him. Sweat erupted on his palms so he nearly dropped the phone, and had to grip it until his knuckles turned white. He licked his dry lips in an attempt to speak again, not paying attention to be loud and clear anymore. ˮTell me the exact address."

The official gave it to him and Benzema's horrifying suspicions were confirmed. ˮIt's the Sundown Hotel, sir. The finest hotel in the city, just as arranged from the start.“

„I thought it was in a captive state. You know, arson poisoning and all", Benzema managed, now just babbling without a brain to helm his mouth, already knowing he will sound like a bumbling lunatic.

Indeed, the official took another second of a puzzled silence. ˮI'm afraid I still don't know what you're talking about, sir. There was no arson poisoning at all, anywhere, otherwise we would be the first to be notified." He paused. ˮAre _you_ alright, sir? Is everything alright with you? Should I call the medics? Sir? _Sir_?"

The man's ongoing tries to reach for the striker were futile as the phone slowly slid down Karim's ear when he moved it away, slowly turning around. He stared over the heads of everyone, contradicting everyone else's clamoring, off into the night while his heart was slowly descending down to his heels.

„What the hell is this place doing to us?" he whispered to no one. But when his gaze met with Marcelo's, meters away, he knew he said it to him.


End file.
